


I Know a Place

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Dean Winchester, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21427963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: Dean and Castiel are both working to try to make their city a better place, vigilantes in the most dangerous of the streets. They’re rivals, but they have each other’s back. The catch? Both of them work anonymously, and don’t know each other’s identity behind the mask. Meanwhile, in their normal lives, they spend time together at fancy parties and disagree about things over glasses of wine. When Dean starts to pull on the thread of a mystery that could lead him to taking on the entirety of the corrupt police force, the Angels, Castiel has to decide where his loyalty lies.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 79
Kudos: 315
Collections: DCBB 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, well, well. Four years have passed and I finally decided to take part in the DCBB again! And I'm so glad I did!!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for the INCREDIBLE art to my artist, [Aceriee](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/). What an absolute joy it's been to collab on this! Thank you so so much for choosing my fic, I got so FREAKING lucky. I've loved your art for a long long time now and I'm psyched as all damn heck that we got to do this. Each art piece just blew me away. The art masterposts can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21345025) on AO3 and [here](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/dcbb19wwikap) on tumblr. <3
> 
> Thank you also to my partner in crime and general badass, [thebloggerbloggerfun](http://thebloggerbloggerfun.tumblr.com), for beta'ing and having excellent ideas as always.
> 
> Thank you finally to my cat. He really helped with this one.

_Dean_

Late afternoon in the city. A warm one, though sunlight didn’t touch these streets.

Dean stood, unmoving, behind the corner of a tall metal building. He waited, eyes open, listening. In his hand, the shine of a gun.

He breathed out. Around him, the empty alleys were lit with an artificial glow. Sol-panels, strips of light built flat into the roads themselves, were dotted every six feet or so. Motes of metallic dust swirled and tumbled slowly in their whitish haze; the air was bad down here, and only the lights underfoot revealed how bad. Dean didn’t notice, not anymore. When you came to the Underlight, you didn’t come for the fresh air. 

With the sol-panels casting eerie shadows over his taut face and over his motionless trigger finger, Dean waited. The city waited with him, looming over him like a grim metallic mother with empty-window eyes. She was a city that soared skyward on the behemoth wings of her buildings - but here, down on the ground, was her belly. It was quiet and poisonous. Every breath was damage and every sound echoed.

Dean closed his eyes.

The footsteps he’d heard were getting louder. Definitely coming in his direction. They were scrambling steps, quick enough to be a sprint, uneven enough to be panicked. And behind them, a second pair of steps. More even, more determined, faster.

Someone was in a race for their life, and they were losing.

Dean opened his eyes, and risked a glance around the corner of the building. Eyes sharp, expression drawn and determined, he saw no one - but the steps were crashing closer and then, quite suddenly, a figure burst out of a darker back alley and into the street Dean was watching. The figure careened into the wall, carried by their own momentum, and cried out when something in their arm audibly cracked. Dean winced, and the figure slid down the wall, clutching their arm to their chest. The second pair of footsteps was drawing closer and closer, and finally another figure stepped into view - at an almost leisurely pace, knowing they'd won.

Or, perhaps, only thinking they’d won.

It was time to move. Dean pulled his hood up, hearing the soft hum of electrics as it engaged its cloaking tech. It was cheap stuff, only covering half his face, leaving his eyes unmasked - but that was good enough, when the streets down here were an eternal two-in-the-morning milky night. Good enough to hide his identity. To anyone looking, he was now just about an empty hood, face almost completely hidden.

He cocked his gun, gritted his teeth, and swung around the corner. 

Just as he turned, the sol-panel nearest to him winked out, and then the next one, and then the next, darkening his progress as he moved down the alley towards the pair of figures.

Dean didn’t stop and he didn’t take his eyes off his target, but his lips pressed together. So, the Angel was here too.

Of course he was.

All that mattered was the person on the ground and the figure standing over them, who had just drawn a weapon - a lightknife, if Dean were to guess, and then the blade crackled and spat into life and it wasn’t a guess anymore. Dean hissed a breath in through his teeth as he stole down the alley, keeping close to the building. He’d gone unnoticed so far, and he wanted to keep it that way. Lightknives were nasty. He wanted the snout of his gun pressing against this asshole’s head as their introduction - no time for them to turn the blade on him.

“Back off,” the figure on the ground said, clearly trying and failing to sound authoritative. “I’m a lawyer. If you don’t back off, I’ll -”

“Just give me what’s in the bag and I won’t hurt you,” the asshole said. High voice, calm and clear. Dean saw the figure on the ground squirm, heard them gasping for breath.

“Please - my arm -”

“The bag. Open it. Then you can go to a med-bay.” The knife dipped ever so slightly. “I’ll even give you directions.”

“No, I - I need - I can’t give you the bag, I can’t - it’s got my -”

“Insulin. Yeah. Duh. What, do you think I do this for spare change? I saw you use it last week when you came this way.”

Dean swallowed, pressed himself tighter to the building. The lightknife in the asshole’s hand was hissing and humming with energy. One touch of that thing could sear skin, cut through muscle and even bone. Dean had seen amputations done with lightknives. If he remembered right, they’d first been made for hospitals and med-bays, meant to save lives. That had lasted about as long as it had taken for the first delivery of them to arrive in the Underlight.

“Please. I need the insulin. I’ll die without it -”

“So’ll my brother,” said the asshole, and suddenly Dean was pulling up short, and they weren’t quite such an asshole anymore. “And he doesn’t have a good job or fancy shoes or a nice watch to sell like you do. So I’ll still be having what’s in that bag, thanks.” They waved the lightknife threateningly. “I will use this. You don’t need all your fingers to open a bag.”

“Just take it,” said the figure on the floor, kicking it towards their attacker, who shook their head coolly.

“I wasn’t born yesterday. I know a Bradbury bag when I see one. You have to open it, or it’ll burn the contents, am I right or am I right?”

The figure on the ground only groaned in answer.

“You’d really let the insulin burn instead of letting my brother have it,” the attacker said softly, and now Dean was on the move again. They might have a brother, but they still couldn’t be allowed to hurt anyone.

The figure on the ground looked up - Dean had a better view of them now, their pale linen pantsuit and soiled strappy shoes, totally inappropriate for the Underlight. This was someone who lived in the Mid at least, maybe the Up. What were they even doing down here? They had long manicured nails and dark, shining hair. And they had an expression of utter contempt on their face when they spat on their assailant’s boots.

Dean saw the expression on the attacker’s face shift from anger to rage in the time it took him to cross the few remaining steps between them. Before the lightknife could lunge forward, he had his gun at the attacker’s neck.

“Drop it,” he said, his hood catching his voice and altering it, making his tone sound like a low growl - and at the same time, someone else said,

“Put it down.”

Dean went very still for a second, and then, frowning, peered around the back of the attacker.

Someone was there on the other side, looking right back at him.

“Hello, Hunter.”

“Oh,” said Dean gloomily. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” said the Angel. “You’re welcome for the sol-panels, by the way.”

“I had it.”

“You saw they have a lightknife?”

“No, I missed that,” Dean said sarcastically.

“Um,” said the attacker, and Dean pressed his Colt more sharply against their skin.

“Seriously,” he said, “switch it off.”

He saw the attacker’s throat twitch as they swallowed, and then the lightknife crackled out. Dean relaxed, ever so slightly. He pulled the muzzle of his gun away from their skin and uncocked it. The attacker looked to be about his own age, with dark brown curly hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. They weren’t moving, still seeming tense, and Dean realised that on their other side, the Angel still had his curved scimitar runeblade to their neck.

“The lightknife’s out,” he said to the Angel. “You can leave it.”

“Leave it?” the Angel said. He was in his usual getup, dark blue leather and a tight mask that covered his lower face and altered his voice, along with deep black eye-tech that covered his sclera, making him look wild and uncanny. It was the typical Angel uniform, only he didn’t wear the usual hood - kept his head totally uncovered, short dark hair on show. Dean was never sure what colour it was, exactly. They only ever met in the Underlight, where you could barely tell what anything really looked like in the murk.

“Leave it,” Dean confirmed, slowly.

“I’m taking them to the nearest Angel base.”

“Oh, are you now.”

“It’s important that I leave at once. It’s my duty to -”

“Is that a new hair gel you’re using?”

The Angel sighed. 

“I… don’t use hair gel. We’ve been through this.”

Dean grinned, though the Angel wouldn’t see it behind Dean’s own mask.

“Right, right. What was it they used to say? I woke up like this?”

“It’s _ true - _”

“My - my arm - I need a doctor,” said the figure on the floor. “Please, I - who are you? Are you helping, or…?”

“Yes, I’m helping,” the Angel said, and Dean rolled his eyes at the officious tone that the Angel’s voice-changer couldn’t quite hide. “I’m an Angel.”

"Okay, well, maybe you could help me get to the nearest elevator -"

“Yes, of course, as soon as I bring your attacker to justice. I need to -”

“Just kill me if you’re going to,” interrupted the attacker.

“What?” the Angel said, pulling his runeblade back in surprise. And quick as a flash, they ducked away and were running. The Angel turned to stare after them, blade lose by his side, looking slightly crushed. He turned back to Dean.

“Look what you did,” he said, accusatory.

“Me?” Dean said, gesturing to himself with the Colt.

“My arm…” insisted the person on the ground. Dean glared down at them. A few yards away, their bag was lying on the ground - a pale pink affair with flowers stitched around the front pocket. Definitely a Bradbury. As the Angel bent down to examine the arm in question, Dean repressed the urge to pick up the bag and open it, incinerating the insulin inside. Sure, it was what this asshole - and this was definitely the asshole of the two people he’d stumbled on here, without a doubt - it was what this asshole had been prepared to do to the person who’d also needed the insulin in there. But that person hadn’t paid for that insulin, Dean reminded himself. That person had just attacked.

Because they had no means to pay for it, Dean also reminded himself.

Because society was broken and some people had no way to pay for the things that they needed to stay alive, while others lived lives of splendour and plenty in the Up, frittering away credits on parties and gold jewellery and shoes and bags, he further reminded himself, and then decided to stop before he really did burn the insulin.

He turned back to the person on the ground, who was significantly calmer. The Angel had given them a painkiller and trussed up their arm against their chest.

“What did you say your name was?”

“I’m Raphael. She, her.”

“I think it’s just a fracture,” the Angel said to her gravely. “I’d go to a med-bay as soon as possible.”

“I’ll go to a hospital,” she said, pulling a face at the idea of going to an Underlight med-bay. Dean raised an eyebrow. So, he’d been right. This person had to be from the Up if she could afford a hospital. “Thank you for your help.” She got to her feet, wobbling on those ridiculous shoes.

“Take care,” Dean offered a little darkly as she stumbled over to her bag and picked it up with her free hand. She offered him a thankless glance, and then smiled weakly back at the Angel, and walked away down the alley.

“Nice person,” Dean said conversationally, when she was out of earshot. “You know, just real nice. Real friendly. What were they even doing down here? In the Underlight? It’s not like anyone down here could afford a lawyer.” He turned to look at the street the lawyer had emerged from, his mind whirring. It looked fairly nondescript. It was a dead-end road, if he remembered correctly - it only led to one building, just a broken-down place. He could faintly see the neon flash of a star, far down the alley - the sign over the door. “Maybe she rode the elevator too far down from some swanky place in the Up,” Dean mused. “But the attacker said she was here last week too, so that doesn’t make sense, she wouldn’t make the same mistake twice...”

He felt a pull on his shoulder, and was turned to face the Angel, who had his curved runeblade gripped tightly in one gloved hand, the other still on Dean’s shoulder.

“The only reason I haven't already reported you as a vigilante,” the Angel growled, “is because you told me we’re out here for the same reasons. To help people.”

“I know,” Dean said impatiently, pushing the Angel’s hand off him.

“You let that criminal get away.”

“Criminal? They were just trying to keep their brother alive.”

“It’s against the law to steal.”

"Maybe we have some bad laws, Angel.”

“Yes. ‘Don’t steal’ is such a controversial principle.”

“_Controversial principle, _” Dean mimicked, pulling a face. The Angel would only just barely be able to make out his eyes, and the full effect wouldn’t be felt, but Dean couldn’t help himself.

“Listen. I know you think you’re ‘important’, and because you’re ‘the Hunter’,” the Angel said, adding air quotes to each emphasised word, “you’re ‘so far’ above the law. But the laws are there to protect people -”

“To protect _ some _people, you mean. Also, I don’t know who taught you how to do air quotes, but they were not a good teacher. I’ve told you this before.”

They glared at each other. Eventually, the Angel looked away.

“Fine. I won’t report you this time. But don’t get in my way again.”

“You’re better than the people you report to,” Dean said, putting his gun away in its holster. “You know that, right?”

“And you’re better than fraying green and black leather,” the Angel said, sheathing his runeblade. “As I’ve been telling you for months. But you will keep showing up in that outfit.”

Dean snorted.

“You love it really,” he said.

“I absolutely do not.”

“You do. C’mon. It’s just us. You can admit it.”

He couldn’t see the lower half of the Angel’s face, couldn’t see the look in his eyes through that eye-tech he was wearing, but he knew the Angel well enough by now to sense that he was amused. Not for the first time, Dean wondered who this Angel was when he wasn’t down here in the Underlight streets.

“I admit nothing.”

“I know the truth.” Dean put a hand on his hip. “So, are you… heading back home?”

“Nice try, Hunter,” the Angel said. “But Wings are for Angels.” He tapped his fingers on the silver metal plate on on one side of his head - it flashed to life in a streak of pale colours along its length - and in a beam of white light from above, he was gone. Delivered instantly to his destination - wherever that might be - by Wings, the quick-travel that was only available to the city’s guardians.

Dean stared up after him.

“I hate it when he does that,” he said, and went to find the nearest elevator station.

Sixty-four minutes later, Dean was riding the elevator up to floor eight hundred of the Harmony building, one of the biggest in the city. He surveyed himself in the mirror as the elevator hummed upwards. No hood, now. No leather. But another kind of suit: slim-cut, black, classic in style, paired with a slightly holographic tie for a hint of modernity. It rippled from black to light grey and back again in the heavy yellowish light of the elevator.

It was a plush twelve-foot space. The walls were lined with red velvet - all but one, which was glass, and afforded a view out over the city. As the elevator rose higher and higher, the buildings of the Up came into view: the Prosperity building, the Peace building, the Honour Building. They were leviathan in size, each housing thousands of people. And soaring above them all, a glittering spire lit up in bright neon, a spike that pierced the dark sky - a building so elite and exclusive that it was only called by one word: Heaven. Dean eyed the tower where the Angels lived and worked. On the side of the building, moving banners showed the smiling face of the current Archangel, Naomi. It was captioned, _ The City of Central is Founded on Respect. _

Dean wondered, not for the first time, what the city herself made of that. He’d always got the feeling she was founded on reinforced concrete. Or, if you wanted to get poetic about it, she was founded on the silent misery of the Underlight. Either way, they needed a new banner, Dean thought.

He put his hand in his pocket, and tried to appear at his ease. Just a few hours at a party, that was all he had to do. Then he could crash out on a bed somewhere, and forget about the Up and the Underlight and every messed up thing in between for a few hours, before waking up tomorrow morning and doing it all again.

He cleared his throat, raising his chin at himself in the mirror. He’d looked a little tired there, for a second. He lightly tapped his shaved cheeks with both hands, trying to pep himself up. Sure, he hated these parties on principle, but he had to be here to maintain his persona, and besides - it wasn’t as though he never had fun at them in practice, while he was here. There was always plenty to eat, and plenty to drink, and usually plenty of people who would be more than happy to spend some time with him in whatever fun way he could imagine.

Fun. There wasn’t a lot that could take the edge off the things he’d seen in the Underlight - the hollow cheeks, the limp bodies, the desperation in people’s eyes, the hopelessness - Dean swallowed. There wasn’t a lot that could distract him hard enough from that to make things bearable. But maybe tonight, he’d be able to feel interested again in having some of that kind of fun. People expected it of him. He expected it of himself. 

It had been a while. Maybe more than a while.

He glanced over the elevator’s read-out, a holographic cube hovering in the elevator’s centre at eye level. _ Apartment 418 Harmony Building. Special Access Granted: Party in Progress - Reroute from Corridor to Public Apartments. _ A little firework burst on the three-dimensional screen, over the word _ Party. _To one side, a countdown showed that Dean had only a few seconds left before he arrived. 

He looked over at his own reflection. He looked good, didn’t he? Good enough? He tried to see someone he knew in the mirror’s faithful painting of the scene: a man in an expensive suit, in front of an even more expensive backdrop. The Underlight misery looked caught in his eyes, but the soft peak of his hair and the sleekness of his suit was all the Up’s glamour. The city, in her hugeness, was filling Dean up. She was his outside and inside. He felt like the filth in her belly, looked like the shine in her eyes. And where was Dean himself, in all of it?

The elevator played a soft tone. 

Dean blinked. Enough overthinking. He stopped eyeing himself in the mirror, and turned to face the doors - and then glanced sideways for one last check, and realised he still had a little Underlight grime on the side of his neck and hastily wiped at it with the back of his hand. It left a greasy smudge.

The doors swept open with an elegant sigh; immediately, Dean’s sanctuary of quiet was filled up with the thick beat of one of the new screamer songs, and he stepped out into a low-lit, high-ceilinged room with balconies and daises raised up, where people in glittering, holographic outfits were dancing and laughing. Glittering all-night sparklers were floating through the air, and rainbow party smoke was being huffed out over the crowd by a huge open vent in one corner. Everyone was in million-credit shoes, million-credit dresses, million-credit necklaces. Dean adjusted the sleeves of his suit. 

In his mind, he saw the face of the so-called criminal in the Underlight from earlier. One kiss worth’s of lipstick from any of these people’s makeup bags would be enough to keep their brother alive for a few weeks at least. But all these people were too busy giving their kisses to each other.

Someone Dean knew turned and waved at him, and then beckoned him over. Dean smiled, and made an effort to stop fidgeting with his clothes as he walked over.

“Hey,” he said, and she put a hand on his arm. Dean fought down the urge to draw away.

“Hi,” she said. “How are you?”

“Better for seeing you, Lisa,” he said, laying it on a bit. SHe’d expect it. _ He _expected it. He should be enjoying this. She’d flirted with him the last several times they’d met each other. Dean tried to feel in the mood for it.

“Of course you are.” She looked up at him, her gaze playful and down to earth. It gave her confidence a sweet silver edge of charm. “Our host was looking for you, by the way.”

Dean felt his heart sink.

“Castiel?” he said. “What does _ he _ want?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Want to come and help me find him?” Dean asked.

She smiled, but then shook her head.

“Last time I saw him, he was having a conversation that was extremely boring.”

“That sounds rude of him. And at his own party, too.”

“It was. So you go find him. Come back here if you want, afterwards.” Her eyes slid off him, up towards the nearest dais, where a beautiful guy who Dean also knew was dancing. “Don’t wait too long, though,” she said.

“Such a romantic.”

She pushed him away, and he went, smiling. It was only as he turned away that he realised how empty the smile felt. He frowned at himself. It was happening again. He was having that feeling like he didn’t want to be here, like nothing here mattered, like he just wanted to be far away from it all. Not down in the Underlight either, just… not here. He wanted to be somewhere else. He didn’t know what he needed, but it wasn’t this.

Somewhere quiet. Where he really wanted to be, right now, was just somewhere quiet.

His conversation with that damned Angel from the Underlight was playing round and round in his head, too. The good parts, and also the part where the Angel had insisted that it would have been right to take the attacker to an Angel base. That was just wrong. Whoever the Angel was, he was _ wrong. _

_ Damn. Stop it. Not here. _Dean tried to push thoughts of the Underlight away. They didn’t mix well with parties. He could remember a time when holding the line between his life down there and his life up here had been so clean and so easy. Nothing had got to him. He’d left it all in the elevator. He’d been two different people. And then, around the time that goddamn Angel had started showing up, it had all started to change.

And who even was that Angel? The thought rolled around in Dean’s mind as he pushed his way through the party, searching for the guy hosting it. Who was that Angel, the one Angel in the whole organisation who actually seemed to give a crap about the Underlight? There was no way to find out. The Angels, except for their leader, were deliberately faceless to the public. It had been months and months, and Dean even didn’t know the guy’s first name.

“Castiel,” he heard someone say, and realised the host of the party, the guy who’d been looking for him, was nearby. “You surely aren’t thinking of having it removed?” Dean pushed his way through. He saw someone he knew, and then someone else, and they put lingering fingers on his shoulders, his hands, as he smiled at them and walked past. Their touch felt cold and he tried not to shudder. Could he make himself want more of that, tonight? Everyone would be expecting it. 

It could even be fun, if he could just get his head right.

For now, though, he just had to play nice enough with his host to ensure he’d be invited to the next party.

And so when he saw Castiel - looking at ease and unfairly handsome in one of the latest styled suits, a drink in his hand and a solemn expression on his face - Dean didn’t back off, heed earlier warnings and avoid the boring conversation. Instead, he walked right up to their group, and smiled as charmingly as he could, and held out his hand for Castiel to take.

Castiel blinked at him, looking about as happy to see Dean as he usually did, which was - well, not very.

Castiel considered Dean for a half-second longer than was polite. Dean could sense the rest of Castiel’s little group watching him, probably keen for some drama. Dean and Castiel together usually meant drama, after all. Somehow, at every party, conversations always turned into arguments that barely managed to scrape politeness. And those blue eyes seemed to cut through Dean’s persona, see the Underlight in him and not like it, not trust it. The closest they’d ever come to a decent talk had been the one time they’d ever been alone together, when they’d been up on the balcony at some party somewhere, and they’d talked about how difficult it was to know what to talk about, sometimes. And even then, Castiel had escaped as soon as he could.

At least with Castiel, though, there was no bullshit. There was none of the cold, shuddery feeling of being around other people at the party. Just watching Castiel stand there was somehow a frustrating relief, like seeing sparks and feeling heat in a room full of smoke and mirrors. Something a little bit real. A flare of warmth ran under Dean’s skin when he caught Castiel’s honest, direct gaze, and that was real too. Dean wanted to chase that feeling.

Castiel took Dean’s hand and shook it, looking disapproving.

_ Just the same as always, then, _ Dean thought.


	2. Chapter 2

_Castiel_

Castiel shook Dean’s hand, his heart beating hard in his chest.

Dean looked about as good as he always did at a party, which was to say, extremely good. He always wore those classic suits, and he had to know how well they fit him, how much they accentuated his best features. Everyone else noticed, after all. Dean himself couldn’t have missed it.

Castiel frowned. He tried to focus, and stop thinking about Dean’s best features.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, and Dean let go of his hand.

“Hey,” he replied easily. “Uh, I was told you were looking for me. Sorry to interrupt, everyone.” He flashed another one of those easy smiles - how did he do that, be so charming without even trying? Castiel watched him and watched him and couldn’t figure it out. There was a general pleasant dismissal of Dean’s apology, everyone seeming pleased to see him.

“Looking for you,” Castiel said. “Yes - yes, I was. I have something of yours that you… left here, last time.”

The way Dean coloured ever so slightly - Castiel was caught between admiration and a scoff. Did Dean really have any shyness left? Surely someone with a reputation like Dean’s had to be past that by now. Castiel couldn’t imagine there were a great deal of people here who hadn’t known the pleasure of Dean’s company in some way or other, over the last few years since he’d joined Harmony building’s party scene. 

That was what his reputation would indicate, anyway.

And the fact that Castiel himself was one of those people who hadn’t known that pleasure - the fact that the closest he’d ever got to Dean was a variety of charged stares - that was somehow both a source of pride and frustration. 

“I’ll take it back,” Dean said, interrupting Castiel’s thoughts.

“It’s back in my private apartments,” Castiel said. The item in question hadn’t been one he’d particularly wanted to walk around holding until Dean showed up, so he’d left it in his bedroom.

“Oh?” Dean said. Castiel could see him thinking things, so he quickly added to the group, “I’ll just take Dean to get it, and then return. I won’t be long at all.”

Dean seemed to stop thinking things. Castiel was glad. _ That _definitely wasn’t happening.

“Before you go,” said Anna, Castiel’s lawyer, her red hair swinging. “Dean. Have you heard what Castiel’s thinking of doing?”

“Uh…” Dean looked uncomfortable at being asked, but it was an eyeblink before he had his countenance back. “He’s not going to being any fun at parties, is he? Cracking a smile once in a while? Because I think we all might pass away from the shock.”

There was general laughter. Castiel felt himself shrivel a little inside, but outwardly he raised a shoulder in what he hoped was a vaguely elegant manner.

“I’ll smile when you say something funny, Mr Winchester,” he said, looking into those green eyes, and seeing a flicker of something deep inside them. He wished, suddenly, that they were alone, so they could stop pretending to not like each other. It always felt like pretending, anyway. But they got to be alone so rarely that it was hard to find out. 

Maybe for Dean, the dislike wasn’t a pretence. Maybe Dean really didn’t like Castiel.

In all likelihood, Castiel thought, watching another person come up to Dean and squeeze his arm before moving away with a smile, Dean didn’t think about Castiel much at all. He had plenty of other people to think about, after all.

“He’s thinking of removing his nex,” Anna said, plowing on past the joke, determined to tell Dean what was on her mind. She tapped her own as she spoke and made the lights on it dance - a silver plate on the side of her head, usually hidden by the fall of her hair. “Tell him he shouldn’t even think about it.”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Dean said. He turned his head quickly left and right, showing off what Castiel already knew: Dean was unoperated. He had no nex.

“I don’t know how you live without it,” Anna said.

“What do you even use it for?”

“Only… everything? I mean, directions, memories, hormone control, pain control, mood control… this thing is a lifesaver.”

“Put there by an Angel,” Dean said, and Castiel held himself still to avoid looking surprised or even jerking back. Dean was well-known for being fun at parties, and Castiel didn’t think he’d ever heard Dean mention the Angels, let alone do something so political as to speak of them in a tone of disapproval. Dean looked surprised himself for a second, but then seemed to shrug and then carried on, “I don’t know. Just never seemed like I needed one. And I don’t need Angels creeping on my memories either.”

“They don’t creep,” Castiel said. 

Dean looked sceptical.

“Uh huh,” he said. “Right, they just… what, survey?”

“They guard,” Castiel said solidly.

“And you never doubt their intentions are pure,” Dean replied dryly. The rest of the group were starting to shift uncomfortably.

“They’re a unified force,” Castiel said. “They exist to protect.”

“Protect who?” Dean shot back, and for the second time in less than two hours, Castiel found himself in an argument about who the Angels existed to serve. He was used to defending the Angels when he was dressed like one, by now - that renegade, the Hunter, who he seemed to constantly cross paths with in the Underlight, he was always asking difficult questions. And now, of all people, Dean Winchester was saying things that ran in the same vein. Was this line of thinking more common than Castiel had realised? Normally, he and Dean argued about the best kind of sushi at parties, not relative morality.

“Everyone,” Castiel said, as calmly as he could.

“And it’s protect _ whom _,” Anna added, and the group tittered as Dean offered her a look.

“Come and get your… thing,” Castiel said. He’d had enough of talking about the Angels. It was bad enough with the Hunter when he struggled for answers, but in front of so many people, it just made his organisation look bad. He knew there had to be answers, good solid answers, to these kinds of questions; it was just that Castiel wasn’t a good enough Angel to know them, and it made the whole thing look stupid when someone took his limited understanding apart. Only one person at the party even knew that Castiel was an Angel and would expect better of him, but Castiel himself knew, and judged his own efforts to be shameful.

Ugh. Time to return Dean’s possession to him, and then get back to being a good party host. He gestured towards Dean with a hand, inviting him forward.

“Right. Yeah.” Dean smiled a goodbye to the group, and followed Castiel away. They moved through the crowd, Dean in Castiel’s wake, and Castiel couldn’t help but catch a few speculative glances as they went. They’d all be proven wrong when Castiel returned a moment later looking unruffled, of course, but for just these few seconds when people were thinking there might be something about to happen between them, it was - it was a little thrilling.

Not that Castiel wanted anything to happen between them.

Well - not that he _ didn’t _want anything to happen between them, but - but he wasn’t even going down that thought path. He’d promised himself he’d stop thinking about it.

He put his hand on the door to his private apartments and it hummed a reader over his hand, opening a half-second later. He stepped through and held it open for Dean, and then pulled it to - not quite closed. He knew anyone could follow them both into the apartments if he left it that way, and that was almost the point. Nothing was going to happen, he was saying to the world. And to Dean. And also, perhaps a small bit, to himself.

“It’s just this way,” he said. His own apartments were lit in soft pastel blues, in contrast to the yellows and reds of the public apartments he kept for parties and functions. He led Dean down a corridor and into his own bedroom. Dean kept close behind. In his room, Castiel delved into one of the drawers in his dresser and pulled out a linen bag.

“Here,” he said, thrusting it a little roughly at Dean, who grabbed for it with a touch of awkwardness.

“Thanks,” he said. “You could’ve just thrown it away, really…”

“It’s yours,” Castiel said blankly. Throwing it away hadn’t even occurred to him. He realised, belatedly, that it might have been the more conventional choice, and wondered if he’d embarrassed himself.

“Well… thanks,” Dean said again. He reached into the bag, and pulled out a toothbrush. 

Castiel had no idea why Dean had even brought it along to the last party hosted here in Castiel’s own apartments, a couple of weeks ago. Maybe it was some kind of… sensual… thing. Dean had definitely only left the apartments the morning after the party, and anyone who’d heard of Dean Winchester’s reputation would know there was no chance he’d spent the whole night alone, after all. He never spent any party alone.

Dean pretended to inspect the toothbrush, flicked off a non-existent mote of dust, and then put it back in the bag. Castiel watched him put on the little show, trying not to be charmed, or at the very least trying not to show it. 

Dean stepped over to the full-length window in Castiel’s room. It looked out across to the East Up, and below, the Eastern Mid. The Underlight was too far down to see. “It’s nice in here,” Dean said. “Nice and quiet.”

He probably hated it, Castiel thought to himself sardonically. Quiet wasn’t something anyone associated with Dean Winchester, the life of the party. But if he used his eyes and not his assumptions, Castiel could see the slope of relief in Dean’s shoulders. Maybe he really did like it back here.

Alone.

Castiel stepped across the room towards him. He could feel his heart pounding again. Images pushed at his brain - pictures of what might happen, what could happen between them. He tried to shove them back, like he always did, like he had ever since that night on the roof when they’d shared a moment and both admitted that they didn’t always know what to talk about at parties, and something had shifted, and suddenly Castiel had felt hot and somehow - somehow with an appetite, though he didn’t want to eat or drink, and - and he’d left Dean standing there on the roof, made a quick exit. Ever since, he’d pictured a moment like this.

Just himself, and Dean. No one else.

He cleared his throat.

_ We should get back to the party, _he knew he should say. 

“I like the quiet,” he said instead. He came to stand at Dean’s shoulder.

“Me too. I mean, not always. But tonight… I dunno.”

“Are you… alright?” Castiel asked cautiously, aware that he’d never asked Dean anything remotely like that. They were supposed to thoroughly dislike each other, after all. That was their reputation. Everyone knew that they didn’t get on.

Dean glanced at him, humour in his eyes, as though he also was aware what people would think if they could hear Castiel taking the time to ask. He shrugged.

“I’m good,” he said. “Just a long day.”

“Life in the Up is so taxing,” Castiel said drily.

“Or not,” Dean said, “if you have an offshore account.”

They shared a smile. Castiel felt a twist in his chest. Dean’s face was a little more open than usual. The sensation that Castiel always had around Dean - that feeling of there being something _ more _to him, some deep and quiet thing like a song in a far-off room - the sensation grew, multiplied. Dean didn’t look like he was supposed to look, tonight. He didn’t look like Dean Winchester, the life of the party.

He just looked like a man. A man with a familiar face. 

_ We should get back to the party, _ insisted Castiel’s rational brain. _ Say it. _

“Well,” Castiel said, “you can stay back here as long as you want.”

“Are you going to stay with me?” Dean said, and Castiel couldn’t tell from his tone if he wanted Castiel to stay or to go or if he didn’t care either way, just wanted to poke at him. Castiel swallowed.

“Um,” he said, trying not to sound too hoarse, trying not to sound as though he were pushing back a hundred pictures in his head of what could happen between them, “people will talk if I do.”

“Yeah?” Dean said, turning away from the window, towards Castiel. “What will they say?”

Castiel kept looking out the window, clenching his fists.

“You already know,” Castiel said. “You know what they’ll say.”

“Would it be so bad if they said it?” Dean asked. Castiel half-turned towards him, raising his eyebrows; Dean himself seemed surprised by the questions he was asking, and where they were leading, but he didn’t pull back when Castiel met his gaze for a brief moment.

“It would be a lie,” Castiel answered.

“It could be real,” Dean said. After a pause, he added, “Only real thing at this party.”

The words sounded raw when Dean said them. Castiel’s thoughts were reeling. He turned back to look at the view.

Did that mean - did Dean also want -

Castiel stared and stared and stared out of the window. He knew what Dean was offering. He knew what could happen. He knew that he shouldn’t, he absolutely should not, because people would talk and his reputation would shift and the Angel organisation would, of course, get to hear about it, and they would hardly be impressed, and besides that, there was quite another very pressing and personal reason why he really, really shouldn’t turn to face Dean, right now, because he couldn’t afford to act on his feelings - he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he really shouldn’t turn, like he was turning, and lift his chin, like he was lifting his chin, and look Dean in the eyes - he looked Dean in the eyes - 

Dean moved into Castiel’s space, and Castiel let him. For a long moment, they only came closer together by inches, breathing, not speaking. Dean smelled like cologne and underneath a hint of something darker, something from the city outside. And then their foreheads were pressed together.

Castiel could feel his heart in his mouth, and it was heavy and hopeful, and he could barely breathe.

“The door’s still open,” Dean said.

“I don’t care,” Castiel said. 

“Should I -”

Castiel kissed him. A soft kiss, just a brush of his lips against Dean’s, his hand reaching up to cup Dean’s cheek, everything light and desperately careful - and then Dean kissed him back, harder, his hand sliding to rest on Castiel’s hip. Castiel felt something rush through him, blossoming out from Dean’s touch, and he breathed in sharply through his nose - didn’t break the kiss.

He knew he should stop this - he should stop - but this was _ Dean, _ he was kissing _ Dean. _ And Dean was good at this, because he was wasn’t kissing Castiel like it was a throwaway thing, a precursor or a little shallow nothing. It felt deep, it felt - it felt like it mattered. It felt like the moment on the balcony when they’d talked alone, the moment he’d felt a true connection, and Castiel’s feelings for Dean had quickened and breathed for the first time. It felt good, so _ good, _it felt real. Anything less and Castiel would have pulled away, but this...

Castiel used his body, turning Dean, pushing him back against the window and pressing in closer. The noise Dean made - he seemed to like the manhandling. And Castiel liked the noise.

There was less care now, just touch, just shoving hands into hair and pulling a little, wanting more, wanting deeper, wanting closer; Castiel’s heart was twisting and twisting and twisting in his chest and this was what he wanted, he was breathless with it, this was exactly what he’d wanted for so, so long, and he couldn’t help it - he put his hands on either side of Dean’s face and held him. Held Dean, Dean who was kissing him - Dean who wanted him back - 

Dean seemed to react to the touch on his cheeks, seemed to untense somehow, unfurl. His kiss became sweeter, gentler. His hand in Castiel’s hair didn’t tug, but stroked. The sensation was a lightknife run over Castiel’s spine, across his shoulders and round to his chest - and it plunged, and plunged deep, when Castiel pulled away a little and Dean leaned in to chase after him, chase his lips and his kiss as though he hadn’t had enough. Dean had chased after him. How it was possible to hurt so wonderfully over something so small, Castiel didn’t know.

“I can get - the door,” Dean said, sounding rough, when Castiel put a hand on Dean’s chest, gently easing them apart. Castiel looked into his eyes; Dean pulled him in again for another kiss and Castiel didn’t want to stop him, wanted to kiss like this now and later and always, and - 

He pulled back, more sharply.

“Dean,” he said. Dean looked flushed, even a little dazed. His tie was askew. “Dean, wait, what - is this - is this just…” He struggled for the right word. Dean swallowed, and Castiel wanted to kiss his neck, kiss his throat, put his mouth to Dean’s skin and make Dean say his name.

“Just?” Dean said.

Castiel hesitated.

“Just for fun?” he said. Dean seemed to pause for a half of a half of a moment, and then his charming smile was back in place.

“‘Course it is,” he said. “No strings attached.”

Castiel’s twisting skewered heart went numb, completely numb. He looked down, away. He stepped back, pulling himself out of Dean’s arms.

“Hey…” Dean said, letting Castiel go easily, pulling his hands away, but sounding upset. “Hey, I’m not - really, it’s OK, it won’t be anything serious -”

Of course it wouldn’t be, Castiel thought. This was Dean Winchester. He did things like this all the time, and it never meant anything. It was never significant. And Castiel - for him, it was different. He couldn’t let himself have - have time with Dean, like that. Dean reaching for him, chasing after the touch of his lips, had shaken him with happiness. If they spent a night together, whatever they did and however they shared their time, it would make him far, far too happy to bear losing it in the morning.

Castiel reached out, and Dean’s expression seemed to ease for a second, but then Castiel only straightened Dean’s tie and set his hair back in place with quick, economical touches.

“I know,” Castiel said. “We should go back to the party.”

“Really? You don’t want…” Dean held his hands out loosely.

Castiel stared. He didn’t know how to answer. Of course he wanted. But he wanted more than a night. He wanted more than just fun.

He tried to think of something to say, and came up empty. Dean raised his shoulders, looking perplexed, and turned away.

“I’ll… I’ll go, then. And see you out there,” he said. “I guess.”

Castiel didn’t say anything. He turned to face the window, and watched in the reflection as Dean paused at the door to stare at him, and then left.

He braced himself against the window with one hand, and put the other over his face. All this time - all this time, feeling this way and managing never to act on it, never to give himself hope, never to expect anything too much - and now here he was. Now he’d done this.

The rest of the party was a slow-moving torture. He only caught Dean’s eyes once more, during the evening. And Dean looked away too fast for it to matter.

Two days later, Castiel Winged down into the Underlight. 

He arrived with the usual beam of light and hiss of pale smoke, which quickly dispersed into the gloom of the dark alley. He'd landed in a crouch and stayed down for a moment, one hand on the hilt of his runeblade, the other bracing his weight on the floor. He looked up, and his eye-tech scanned the surroundings. They reported no signs of life in the nearest twenty metres. He was alone.

He got to his feet.

On all sides, behemoth buildings stretched high above the clouded air and out of sight. Castiel turned his attention to the one nearest him. Like all Underlight buildings, it looked broken-down and unused; the automatic door had been jammed open with a length of rusted metal. Its dark fibreglass walls had deep spiderweb cracks threaded over the panels. Inside, it was unnaturally still.

With a hard swallow, Castiel lifted a hand to the side of his head, and tapped his nex. 

He heard the panel whir softly to life - and felt the usual quick jab of happiness pierce his mind. The nex balanced brain chemistry as a feature that couldn’t be disabled. Castiel fought back a smile, clenching his jaw.

_ Here to help, _ said Castiel’s thoughts. _ Would you like to customise a daydream? _

A flash of Dean Winchester’s smile appeared in his mind, like a teaser.

“No,” Castiel said. He repressed a shudder. There was something about the way the nex used his own thoughts to speak to him that made his skin crawl. The twisting knife of happiness dug in deeper, and his sensation of discomfort eased unnaturally.

_ Would you like to reduce unwanted memories? Send them to our trash can for your peace of mind. _

Dean Winchester again. The press of his lips, and then the look in his eyes when he’d so flippantly said, _ no strings attached. _

“No,” Castiel repeated. “The database. I want you to search it again. You located a type-one diabetic before I Winged down. I want you to recheck his last known location. Samandriel, no last name known.”

_ Verifying… _

Castiel waited in the alley, poised. He kept his hand on the hilt of his rune-knife.

_ Angel 401, Castiel, verified. Checking database. Samandriel, no last name. Last known location, zero point zero one kilometres from you. _

So, this was the right place. Castiel squinted up at the building in front of him. He could go in there now, but there was no rush. Everything seemed just fine, all quiet. He could go for a walk first, just his usual Underlight patrol. That would be fine.

It hadn’t been hard, using the Angel database, to find the names of all the type-one diabetics in the Underlight. Filtering the search by those who had siblings had left three names. Narrowing it down to those with an elder sibling had left just one. Samandriel, no last name known.

Castiel’s eye-tech revealed no elevated heartbeats in the building, no signs of stress. There was no rush. Everything was fine. He could come back later for the criminal and their sick brother.

Castiel began to walk. The Underlight looked beautiful, today. Somehow just the hiss of the leaking pipes and the tawdry glow of the sol-panels was filling him with a kind of awe.

There hadn't been a call for him to go to the Underlight - as indeed there had never been a call for him to go to the Underlight. The Angel organisation was usually happy to let the denizens down here fight it out amongst themselves, without intervention.

But it was the organisation's work to protect the people of the city, from the Up to the Underlight, and that meant - call or no call - it was Castiel's job as an Angel to guard the streets down here. 

He kept a hand on his rune-blade's hilt, and began to stride down the alley. He'd learned a certain brand of walk since he'd begun these unofficial patrols; rhythmic, step by step, carrying him on a familiar path through the gloomy warren of streets and buildings. It was always eerily empty, with relatively few people living here since anyone who could afford it found housing in the better air of the Mid or the Up - but there were still people, and he could watch their streets.

As he walked, a brief flicker of memory crossed his mind. A flash of light. A sign. A sign of a star? He grasped at it, but the thought was gently borne away. It didn’t particularly matter. He’d thought about that star before, but could never remember where he’d seen it.

Someone up ahead left their building, the old-fashioned door swinging behind them. They were wearing a cloak, and no facemask.

“Angel,” they said as they passed him. Not entirely respectful, but an acknowledgement. Castiel nodded.

“Is all well?” he asked. They stopped to look at him, expression caught between confusion and defiance.

“Yes?” they ventured.

“No troubles in your home? I’m here to help,” Castiel said.

“No trouble,” they said, and when Castiel nodded, they scurried away. He watched after them ruefully. He often wondered whether he’d do better to come down here without the outfit. The leather, the eye-tech that made his eyes midnight-black, the voice-changing mask that covered the lower half of his face, the full regalia of it - even without the usual hood to cover his hair, it was imposing and the people of the Underlight didn’t trust it. Castiel wondered whether he’d do better to turn up in plainer clothes. 

Be a true vigilante in these streets, like the Hunter.

But no - he was a part of the organisation. They had been a family to him when he had, himself, been lost in the Underlight. They cared for him. The least he could do was wear their colours when he guarded the streets in the way that they’d taught him.

Anyway. It didn’t matter that much whether one person thought he was intimidating or not. There was no problem; everything was fine. Castiel felt a slight smile slide onto his face.

“Nice neighbourhood watch act, Angel.”

As though summoned by a passing thought of him, here was the Hunter. And as soon as he heard the voice, Castiel felt his emotions slip - felt something like a current under a flat frozen river surface. Some real emotion, something genuine, under a veneer of shining white happiness.

He cursed to himself, and reached up, and tapped his nex. He’d forgotten to turn it off. The smile on his face faded. The contentment left him. He closed his eyes for a moment, berating himself. The lull of the nex was so sweet, so easy to fall into. He wanted the thing off his head. Out of his thoughts. The organisation, though, would never agree. Everyone wanted a nex. They were exclusive. It would ruin Castiel’s persona if he had it removed. And besides, every Angel had one.

“Hey,” said the Hunter. “I said, that was a nice act.”

Castiel turned to look at him, or rather into the shadow of his hood. As usual, he looked cool - standing up against the nearest building, the green and black leather fitting him well. Castiel’s eye-tech revealed nothing about him that the naked eye couldn’t see; his cloaking tech was cheap but, if Castiel was any judge, it had been modified and it was well-done. Castiel couldn’t even register his heartbeat, like he normally could with a living person. Just scanning him over, though, taking a moment to do it, helped settle Castiel’s nerves. He breathed out.

“I do my best,” Castiel replied, non-committal. He was going for non-committal as a vibe as often as he could, after what had happened between him and Dean Winchester at the party.

But he wasn’t thinking about that. He’d been doing so well. He focused instead on the Hunter, trying to take his mind back off Dean. 

“You know they either don’t like you or they’re scared of you, right?” the Hunter was saying casually. “There’s no point trying to make pals down here. They’ll never trust you.”

“They’ve no reason to distrust me,” Castiel said, stung.

The Hunter cocked his hooded head to one side.

“You’re an Angel,” he said.

“So?”

“So? Really?” The Hunter said. “You can’t see what it is about an Angel that might make them just a little bit less likely to trust you?” 

“Is it the hair,” Castiel said flatly.

“Maybe. Or maybe it’s all the arresting small-time criminals while preserving the safety of the fat cats at the top. You know, enforcing the laws that keep these people living in the dirt while up there, they’re throwing parties. But, you know, also the hair.”

They fell into step together, at Castiel’s usual patrol pace, as they had done so often before.

“I try to keep these people safe,” Castiel said, and then corrected himself, “the organisation tries to keep them safe. They only want the best for everyone.”

“Real principled establishment, the Angels.”

“Of course,” Castiel said.

“Uh-huh. And what about the disappearances?”

Castiel paused a moment.

“Stories,” he said. “That’s all. Nightmare fuel.”

“The drugs? The lies? The surveillance through people’s nexes?”

“If those things happen, it’s nothing to do with me and I’m sure they’re done only when necessary.”

“What about the nex being used for mind-control?”

Castiel swallowed hard. The Hunter tended to make it his personal mission to screw with Castiel every time they met, by tearing away at the organisation’s integrity - but this pointedness, this relentlessness, this lack of humour, it was different.

“Just a rumour,” Castiel said roughly.

“No smoke without fire, Angel.” The Hunter shook his head. “Whatever. You got anything on your spooky eyes? Raised heartbeats, or… anything?”

Castiel narrowed the eyes in question, but then flicked his gaze back and forth behind his eye-tech, selecting the scan option and searching for elevated heart rates in the Underlight. He watched the cityscape go dark around him, orange lights starting to pulse in his vision as the scanners picked up on hearts beating nearby. All looking normal, except -

There, just a block away. On the fourth floor, Cas counted quickly. A pair of heartbeats that were definitely raised - he activated a new mode. One person inside the building, their heat print looking as though they were crouched down behind some kind of barricade. They looked small, from what Castiel could tell. And outside the barricade, another bigger person, who - as Castiel watched - lunged at the barrier with some kind of blunt weapon that wasn’t hot enough to show up on his eye-tech’s infra setting, but which had to be heavy by the way the larger figure was carrying it.

“Got something?” the Hunter said.

Castiel was already moving away, breaking into a run.

“What,” the Hunter called after him. “No invitation?”

_ You’ll be there, _ Castiel thought. _ You’re always there. _

If only Dean Winchester had half the reliability, the steadfastness, of the Hunter - but that was something he wasn’t thinking about, Castiel reminded himself angrily. He had been doing so well. Or perhaps he hadn’t, but he liked to think that he had been. And the organisation would _ definitely _ like to think that one of their operatives in the Up wasn’t mooning over one of the more prominent members of the party scene that he was supposed to be surveilling.

_ Guarding, _ he caught himself. _ Guarding. Not surveilling. _

Of course, the organisation would probably also like to think that the aforementioned operative wasn’t taking unscheduled trips to the Underlight to attempt to provide help and order to the citizens down here. The organisation would definitely like to think that he wasn’t associating with a vigilante. But that didn’t slow Castiel’s steps as he ran towards the building where he’d located the raised heartbeats. He wondered how the Hunter would get there, and if it would be slower or faster than Castiel himself. Somehow, he always found a way to get there in time to help.

And then rub it in Castiel’s face, obviously.

\---

Thirty minutes later, sweat pouring down Castiel’s forehead, it was over. 

The two of them were sitting side by side in the fourth-floor apartment, with the would-be assailant out cold on the floor in front of them, both of their backs pressed up against the wall. Castiel was gently touching his fingers to a cut on his forehead; the Hunter, meanwhile, was running his hand over a long but shallow slash to his stomach.

“An axe,” the Hunter said. “Who has an axe, these days, in the Underlight? There aren’t any trees left. What’s he gonna do with it when he can’t attack us?”

“I think,” Castiel said, "he never intended it for trees."

"What was he doing, attacking the door like that with a kid behind it?"

"The child probably runs drugs and got caught in something shady," Castiel said calmly. "It's not uncommon. Particularly down here in the Underlight where no one has a nex as a mood regulator."

He was talking just to talk; the Hunter already knew everything that he was saying, and Castiel knew that he knew. After half an hour of sweaty nasty brutal fighting with an axe-wielding monolith of a man, struggling to get an angle on him without endangering the child behind the door he'd been attacking - after several near misses of that sharp axe blade near his face, his neck - he felt like filling the space up with words.

"He ripped my damn suit," the Hunter said, and through his voice-changer Castiel could hear the petty annoyance, and it managed to make him smile. He wondered if he himself ever did something so human that it made the Hunter warm to him in the same way.

"You'll fix it," he said aloud.

"Yeah. Not cheap, though."

"Mmm." They maintained a strict policy of never mentioning anything about their lives beyond the Underlight to each other, something they'd never spoken about but wordlessly kept to. The Hunter mentioning that money might be an issue for him seemed to skate a little close to the line, because now Castiel was thinking, is he from the Underlight himself? Or just one step up, from the North Mid? Does he struggle for cash? Is he here when he should be at work?

He thought of his own overflowing credit account with a wince. He couldn't offer the Hunter any of the credits the organisation sent his way, for so many reasons - but he surprised himself by suddenly wanting to. He and the Hunter had disliked each other so comfortably for so long while working together down in the Underlight that the impulse was a confusing one.

"Hey, by the way," the Hunter said. "I need you to use your eye-tech. Search the Underlight for diabetics. Does it have a setting for that, or whatever?"

Castiel turned to stare at him. Then he reached into one of the pockets of his suit, and retrieved his own stack of insulin patches, holding them up for the Hunter to see. From the shadows of the hood came a snort.

"You too?" he said, pulling out another handful of insulin and clinking the sets of patches together as though they were wine glasses. Castiel noticed a couple of the Hunter’s had yellow covers, instead of the insulin green - that was adrenaline. He wondered whether the Hunter had meant to pick those up, or if it had been an accident. "Cheers to us, I guess. Did you find him, then? The diabetic brother?"

"I found him. Samandriel. No last name.” Castiel swallowed, hoping the Hunter wouldn’t ask how he’d managed it. The eye-tech that Castiel wore was useless for something so detailed about the human body, wouldn’t have been able to pick out a single diabetic human in the whole Underlight in a thousand years. Accessing the Angel database via his nex had been the only way to do it. “I winged down next to the building."

"And?"

"I didn’t go in. I wanted to patrol first. It's my routine." Looking back, Castiel felt a clutch of worry that he’d made a poor choice. It had seemed as though there had been no rush to get the insulin to Samandriel, but how much of that reassurance had come from observing the facts of the situation and how much had been artificially rendered by his nex?

The Hunter clicked his tongue. 

"Right, right, the routine. Yeah. I forgot. Definitely more important than getting meds to a sick kid in a hurry. You know, sometimes we're on the same page," he said, getting to his feet with a groan, "and sometimes we just aren't."

"I checked before I started patrolling. There were no signs of danger or stress."

"Yeah. Meanwhile both he and his sibling are out there losing their minds thinking he has no way to get insulin. Come on, we’ve gotta go. Now."

"You asked me to search for raised heartbeats first," Castiel said, stung, because he hadn't thought of that. Hadn't remembered that the boy and his criminal sibling wouldn't know that their deliverance was nigh, after a quick patrol. “You got us distracted with this.” He glanced over at the scene before them, the attacker with his weapon out cold on the floor.

"That was me trying to get you to find the kid subtly. I didn’t think you’d go chasing after an axe murderer.” 

“How was finding all the raised heartbeats in the entire Underlight going to possibly help with -”

“I thought if I straight-up got you to lead me to the right place, you'd try to arrest the sibling again. Will you get up?"

"I won't make an arrest," Castiel muttered, looking up at the Hunter.

"Damn right you won't," the Hunter said.

“I just wanted to help. That’s why I found Samandriel.”

Dean held out his hand for Castiel to take. Castiel ignored it, and got himself to his feet. The Hunter turned away as though he hadn't even really noticed, kicking the foot of the guy they'd taken down.

"We need to go. What happens to Sleeping Beauty?"

"I'll come back for him. This one I really will take to the Angel base." 

"And the kid behind the door…?"

"Gone," Castiel said, doing one more sweep with his eye-tech and coming up blank for other signs of life. "The child must have made an escape out onto a balcony or down the side of the building, so I don't know what more we can do for them…"

"Nothing," the Hunter said, and in his voice Castiel could hear the same tiredness, the same bravado, the same helplessness that he felt himself in his bones. "Come on. Time to go."

They made their way back through the Underlight, the Hunter's presence reassuring at Castiel's side. For all the Hunter's faults, he knew how to make quick and quiet progress through these streets, footfalls steady, falling into pace with Castiel without effort.

At the building where Castiel had located the diabetic boy and his sibling, they tapped the outdated apartment list. It flickered and hummed. Next to the numbers 2 and 19 were a pair of names: _ Hannah, Samandriel. _

“Think they’re in there?”

“I’ll scan it before we leave the meds, and see if anyone’s in the apartment.”

Together, they went up to the second floor, and found door number 19. A quick check of the apartment with his eye-tech showed Castiel a couple of figures inside, both adult-sized, one sleeping and one moving around. He looked back at the Hunter, and tapped a finger to his lips, and nodded. They pulled out their insulin patches, and left them in a messy heap in front of the door.

“Not the yellow ones,” Castiel told the Hunter.

“Huh?”

“The yellow ones,” he muttered, keeping his voice down in case the people inside the apartment heard them talking. “Those are adrenaline, not insulin. Just leave the green ones.”

“Ah, shit. Thought I only got insulin. Crappy dealer cut the stack with adrenaline…”

They knocked and then ducked away out of sight, round a corner. 

They heard the door swing open slowly, cautiously, and then a gasp.

"Hannah?" came a voice from inside the shabby apartment - Castiel could just see a slice of the interior and a little of the criminal's, Hannah's, face as they bent down to retrieve the medicine.

"Sam," they said, and Castiel felt the Hunter go suddenly tense beside him. "It's okay. Oh my - Samandriel, it's insulin."

"What?"

The door swung shut abruptly as Hannah closed it, and the sounds of their voices were cut off. For a while, though, Castiel and the Hunter kept standing there, leaning back against the wall of the dingy hallway.

"It's not enough," the Hunter said. Castiel felt his stomach drop at how hard he understood.

"It never is, down here," he said. "But we do what we can."

"Do we? Really? Do you really give everything you can?"

Castiel felt his throat stick.

"I can't give any more," he said carefully, "without losing the ability to give at all."

They were silent for a long time. Castiel thought about the Hunter. Thought about how he worried over getting his suit fixed, got his insulin from a dealer, seemed to live a cheaper and harder life than Castiel did. He wondered how much of the Hunter’s existence was given over to trying to make things right in the Underlight. He wondered how much of his own was, really. He felt as though he was doing his best, but it couldn’t be enough, because it wasn’t fixed. Everything down here was still so, so broken.

"You never fire that gun of yours," Castiel said eventually, just to say something. "I've never seen you do it."

"Not down here," the Hunter said.

They parted ways a short time later, going separately to offer what help they could in the Underlight. They didn't always work together. They both knew it, without saying it; sometimes, they needed to face it alone.


	3. Chapter 3

_Dean_

"And then he said to me,” Sam said, “'don't fucking move', and I said, well, how am I supposed to drop the gun if I don't move? And he said, get this, he said that I had to do it with my eyes closed. As if… somehow… doing it with my eyes closed… meant that I wouldn't be moving…"

Dean grinned at the sound of Sam's voice, tinny and crackly through the old phone that he used to stay in contact with his brother. It had only worked twice before in the years Sam had been away, the connection was so poor. Dean was sitting in the quiet South Mid, perched on a balcony that belonged to an empty apartment. He was high up enough to be beyond the creeping glow of the Underlight, beyond the blanket of smog that blocked out all the sunlight - and still low enough that hardly anyone lived here. Or rather, thousands of people lived here, but the place had been built over three centuries ago to house many hundreds of thousands of people, and so it felt all but deserted, much like the Underlight. 

The air was a metallic yellow, light from sol-panels in the building's walls illuminating the many bridges that linked different buildings and open plazas in the Mid. The sun was going down, breathing a tinge of orange-red over what Dean could see of the sky between the buildings. The glow of Heaven, its moving banners calling for respect, was visible as a beautifully vicious talon clawing ever upwards above the rest of the city.

“And then he asked me how I know so much about fighting, and I said I learned it in the library,” Sam said. “I mean, watching all those archived videos on karate definitely helped, so.”

"It's a good story," Dean conceded, when Sam was done talking. "But, uh. Just one thing.” 

“Yeah?”

“I think you went to Coastal to study the law, not beat up bad dudes," Dean said. “Am I right, or am I right.”

"He walked right into my path, Dean. I mean, literally, _ right _into my path. The guy wanted to get his ass kicked. I swear."

"Dude, you can't carry a gun round Coastal. You'll get kicked out of your school."

"Everyone just thinks it's an antique, Dean. They think I carry it to look cool. No one cares."

"I'm just sayin', I don't wanna see your ass back in Central after you got kicked out. There's a plan, remember? I keep the Underlight as clean as I can, you…"

"Figure out how to topple the system from within," Sam finished. "Yeah, but Dean, listen. The more I learn here, the more screwed up Central looks. I mean, there are no Angels in Coastal. Just… none. They don't have anything like that.”

“No Angels?” Dean said. The thought was bizarre. He knew that Coastal city was across the Sudden Water, the flood that had risen up and swallowed a great swathe of land a few hundred years ago or more. They’d learned about it at school, but that had been a long time ago. “But… do they have a police at all?”

“Yeah. The officers go round and do patrols and talk to people.” Dean was reminded, irresistibly, of his Angel of the Underlight. The insistence on patrolling, the determination to talk to the citizens and enquire after their health. Dean gritted his teeth. Maybe the Angel was actually onto something. “You know, they don't even do jail time here, anymore. It's all rehabilitation and restitution based on the severity of the crime and the means of the criminal. And it _ works. _ This is the place Central should be. If the Angels weren’t holding Central back, this is the place it _ could _be."

"You're saying I need to take down the Angels to clear the way for you to take down the broken legal system," Dean said, mock-seriously. "I hear you."

"Actually, not far off."

"Two more months, Sammy. You're gonna kick those final exams in the butt, and then come back here to sort all the shit out in Central."

"Right. And in the meantime…"

"No skipping class to kick people's butts," Dean said, and Sam breathed out in irritated acceptance. "Man. Never thought I'd have to tell you to stop picking fights and focus on school. What did Coastal do to you? You couldn't wait to get away from the life down here."

"I don't know," Sam said. "Maybe I miss it because I'm not there."

"Maybe you're just difficult like that, yeah."

Sam snorted.

"So, you're going home to patch up your suit?"

"Uh… well, I thought I'd just do another quick round. I didn’t even get to tell you about what happened the other day in the Underlight. There was a lawyer down there, Sammy. A lawyer in a suit that had to cost a crapton, who apparently was there the week before, too. Something’s up with that. I wanna go look at the building she came out of. See if I can figure out ."

"Dean. Your suit is ripped. Do not go down there again. C'mon, you know better than that."

"And you don't know better than to pick a fight on your college campus?"

"Ha-ha, hilarious, we already went over that. Seriously, Dean, don't."

"Okay, okay. I'll go home."

They were winding up the conversation, doing it in the strained and taut tones of voice that meant goodbye. The distance was hard on both of them, and the only way it showed was how much effort it took for them both to sound fine.

"Good. I gotta run. There’s another kid from Central and they removed his nex down the hall and I wanna see it."

"Oh, yeah, dope." Dean was thinking, suddenly, of Castiel wanting to get his nex removed - of following Castiel to his room, of that kiss.

"Bye, Dean."

"Uh - yeah, bye," Dean said, tripping a little over his words as he hung up. He had tried to avoid thinking about the kiss for the past couple of days, if only because every time he did stop to remember it, it felt like having the wind knocked out of him, and he completely lost track of what he was supposed to be doing or saying. 

Now, perched on a balcony in the South Mid with the sol-panels lowered to sunset, his hood down, and one leg hanging over to swing loose over the perilous fall down to the Underlight below, Dean allowed himself a moment to consider it.

What had even happened? One second he'd been going to retrieve his toothbrush from Castiel's room while getting very clear signals that nothing else would be happening, and the next second Castiel had been pushing him back against the window, and giving him a kiss like - like _ that _ \- where had that come from? That gentleness in his touch, the intensity, the need in those hands cupping his face, Dean's own face? 

And then - then Castiel had checked that it would just be a quick thing, and Dean had tried to reassure him, but he'd been messed up somehow by the kiss and he'd known he hadn't sounded fully convincing, and Castiel had been able to sense his hesitation, and he had pulled away. He’d decided going further wasn't worth the risk of Dean possibly getting attached and awkwardly expecting more from their encounter, and had sent him away like a naughty puppy.

After a kiss like _ that. _

He could still feel the way Castiel had first brushed his lips against Dean’s. The way it had sparked shivers that had chased up Dean’s back, fanned out over his shoulders, the intensity of it, the suddenness, the - the _ everything _ \- all of that had happened before during a kiss exactly never. He’d had his share of kisses and they’d never felt like that. A whole-body experience. And whatever, it was just a sensation, it was just a reaction to being touched, probably it was just because it had been so long, but… Dean swung his leg more quickly, frustratedly. He wanted that touch again. Dizzying, dazzling, desperately good, and the thing was, it was sure _ not _ to happen again. But for a second, there, the little brushes of something real that sometimes passed between himself and Castiel, Dean had felt them broaden into bold paint strokes. It had been so, so good. No pretence, no thought. A sudden deepdive into not feeling alone.

Sam had left Central two years ago for Coastal, and what had happened that night with Castiel had been the first time in two years that he'd felt as though he mattered to someone in the city where he lived. 

It was a cold kind of thought. One he didn’t want to dwell on.

Dean stood up. He'd said to Sam that he would go home; he hadn't said _ when _he would go home. There was enough time for him to go back to that area where the lawyer had been, try to trace her steps back to the building she’d first emerged from. And in the meanwhile, he could be ready to help anyone who appeared to need it, too. As he headed for the nearest downward elevator to the Underlight from the Mid - it was too late for any of the hoverbuses to be running, so he’d have to take the option that required more credits and bring an elevator all the way down here - he pressed his hand to the gap in his suit.

It would be fine. He probably wouldn't even see anyone The area was on the south side of the Underlight. Everyone knew that was the quietest part of the quiet and ugly belly of the city.

The Underlight was, as ever, hushed and steaming and grim. The elevator had taken Dean to a street just a few minutes away from the building where the lawyer had appeared, and he picked his way through the alleys, taking care, listening. The Underlight always felt deserted, but in reality there were too many lightknives willing to slash through the dark for the sake of the credit or two that could be won from reselling a pair of decent boots, or some modified cloaking tech.

Always, as he walked, Dean felt the weight of the city above. The streets down here could be narrow and dripping with water, or they could be wide and dusted with iron fillings and sand - and some of the doors into buildings were huge, others just large enough to admit one person. The cloak of thick smog hid the tops of the buildings from view; it was impossible to tell, from here, which buildings were the little thirty-storey relics of centuries past, and which were many-hundred-tier behemoths that made up the modern Central City.

Dean found the entrance to the alley, the one from which the lawyer had first fled. He crouched for a second, staring down the dead-end road towards that star-shaped neon sign at the end. It flickered teasingly, winking at him.

With one hand, Dean rubbed the gap in his suit. He knew he shouldn’t go. If someone tried to lightknife him - some squatter, or something - then he was vulnerable to it in probably the worst possible place. Nothing to diffuse the blow, nothing to protect him. The building wasn’t going anywhere, either. It would be so easy to just hitch a ride in the elevator, all the way back to the Up. There would be a party happening somewhere that he could join. He’d look great in his suit. Maybe Castiel would be there.

The memory of Castiel pushing him away, not wanting him unless it was just a bit of fun, bit into Dean’s mind. 

He gritted his teeth. No party tonight. At least, not yet. 

He’d check out this building first. If a fancy lawyer was coming and going from it, Dean wanted to know why. Was it some kind of drop-off point, or storage area? Only a big-time crime syndicate of some kind would be able to afford a lawyer like that, surely - it wasn’t going to be some backstreet nex-installer’s place, it was going to be the supplier, or something. Offices in the Up, and all the dirty work going on in the Underlight. But why would the lawyer need to come down here?

It was a lot easier to think about this mystery than it was to wonder why Castiel was so repulsed by the idea of Dean having any actual feelings for him. Was just the potential of him being around for longer than a night really so terrible? Why?

No. He needed to focus. The lawyer. Raphael. Why had she come? What had she needed? It had to be something criminal - Dean couldn’t think of a legitimate reason why a high-power lawyer might be sent down here. And if this place was housing some kind of criminal activity, Dean needed to stop it.

Dean straightened up, and looked left and right. This was usually the point where the Angel would turn up, and say something rude, and get annoyed with him, and then have his back as they went in together. But tonight, the Angel wasn’t here. The streets all around were quiet. Dean knew there were people out there somewhere, the denizens of the Underlight, but they’d learned to move with as little sound as possible, and he couldn’t see them in the dark.

He was doing this for them. To try to make the place where they lived safe, make it make sense. And they weren’t grateful - no one down here even knew his name, as far as Dean knew. Only the Angel called him the Hunter, no one else. Even still, in obscurity and thankless and kind of hungry, Dean knew he had to do it.

His steps down the alley were soft. He knew how to move quietly, too.

The star-shaped sign hummed and buzzed. Its light trembled. The door beneath it was a small one, just a single panel of steel. There was no reader, no scanner. Dean put his hand on the door handle, and pushed down.

_ Clunk. _

It swung open. Dean peered inside. The exposed strip of skin across his stomach was cold. The air inside the building smelled strangely fresh, almost acidic, like citrus - as though someone had cleaned the place recently. Not with a steriliser, just with basic bleach.

He couldn’t see anything, beyond a slice of grey floor. The rest was in pitch darkness. There was no sound. But something about the stillness felt tense, felt wrong.

Dean unholstered his gun, and cocked it.

He walked inside. The floor was concrete. As the darkness swallowed him, his vision didn’t improve. He blinked furiously, trying to help his eyes adjust, but he couldn’t see anything. There were faint rustlings in the dark, little technological clicks, and a breath that could have been a breeze, or a half-whisper, and then -

_ Wham. _

The door behind Dean slammed shut.

“No!” Dean cried out before he could help himself, spinning and then realising that, without the slice of light through the door, he had no idea which direction he’d come from. He whirled in place, losing his balance for a moment in the dark and holding out his arms to steady himself. The rustles were getting louder.

“Who’s there?” Dean called. He brought up his gun, knowing that it was useless - he couldn’t fire in here, not without visibility. A wall could be a foot away, the bullet could ricochet, and Dean could accidentally shoot himself in the space of a heartbeat.

No one answered him, but the whirring clicks seemed to increase.

“Hello? Who’s there?”

“No nex detected,” said a cool voice in the dark. “No nex detected. Intruder.”

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, _ shit - _”

And then the first blow fell, and it was right to his stomach.

Dean collapsed into the elevator, tasting iron in his mouth. He spat and saw red.

Someone was making little low groaning sounds, and he only realised they were coming from his own mouth when he moved the hand on his stomach and they got higher, more strained. His hand was coated in blood. Bright red and angry to be out in the world, when it should definitely have all been inside him.

“Shit. Shit, shit…”

Dean closed his eyes. He could feel the elevator hissing upwards. Was it going fast enough? Was it possible to go fast enough? The dark behind his eyelids was swirling and juddering as though he were just about to fall asleep, but the pain from his stomach was a constant carving knife through him, refusing to let him pass out. His face felt broken, bloody, eyes struggling to open when he tried. Why were they like that? He vaguely remembered something heavy and hard swinging repeatedly at his head as he lay on the ground, but the memory was soft as a dream.

Damn. Damn, damn, _ damn. _He was crying out again in the elevator with no one to hear. Where was he, again? His mind was reeling back through pictures, fragments - but they were fading. Leaving him. He felt as though he were waking up, or maybe falling asleep so hard that he couldn’t remember what it was like to be awake. He knew he’d gone looking for something. Someplace. He knew he’d found it. He knew there had been people there.

Then, quite suddenly, alone. His memory skipped and jumped uneasily, trying to pull memories that curled away from him. All that came to him was a sensation: one of falling apart. He’d woken up in an Underlight alley and looked down and he was bleeding out. Thick red blood pooled across a sol-panel, staining its light to an incongruous sweet pink.

Wishing, for the first time in his life, for a nex. Watching his own lifeblood spill out of his body, close-up, horrifying, nightmarishly unstoppable, and wishing he had one of those silver panels in his head to give him a shot of adrenaline that could save his life, give him enough to get up the stairs and into an elevator, back to the Up, or just to a med-bay in the Underlight, even -

_ The yellow ones… those are adrenaline, not insulin, _the voice of an Angel had said in his mind.

Two yellow patches. A chance. Teeth gritted as he ripped them open and stuck them to his skin, to stop up the urge to cry with the pain. Was this happening now or was it a memory? The sudden rush of energy, the numbing, the whirlwind in his head as he’d stood up and made a break for the nearest elevator stop. Tumbled into it, leaving blood as a trail in his wake. Found himself in an elevator. _ This _elevator. Tapped in the first address he could think of - the only one he could think of. Who lived there? He couldn’t remember. But it was the only place he could go. He knew that for sure.

His memory cut out again and came back. How long had he been here? Struggling for breath. Hands wet and red, it had to be a nightmare. His heart pumping blood furiously, angrily, every frantic two-part beat a telling-off. _ You fucked. This Up. So bad. And Now. We are. Gonna. Die here. _

“No, no, shit… shit, come on,” Dean said, slapping one bloody hand against the floor of the elevator, as though it were a horse that could be hurried with a firm touch. “Please, please. I can’t…”

The elevator flew. The city cupped him in one of her many metal hands and desperately flung him upward. Dean couldn’t make out the letters on the read-out, the glowing cube above him.

“Where am I…” He broke off, coughed.

The blood in Dean’s mouth was too much to speak through. He spat again, seeing red on the green and black leather of his suit. Things were swimming faster, breaking into pieces in his mind. What was he looking at? Where was he? He sat still with his eyes open for a long, long time, and then blinked, and realised that the doors of the elevator were open, and he didn’t know how long they’d been that way, and the boost of adrenaline was all but over. He could barely manage a crawl along the high-ceilinged, velvet-lined, wide and beautiful corridor. He reached a door he knew, and stopped by it.

He slammed his fist against it, just once, and then pressed his forehead to it, both hands cradling his stomach.

When it opened, he saw a face he thought he knew. He stared up, on his knees, feeling blood crinkling its way down his cheeks and forehead. He tried to say something and couldn’t. The face above him looked pale with shock and it was saying something, and then Dean reached up and pulled back his hood, letting down the mask that covered his mouth, and the face blanched all over again.

“Dean?”

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he managed to say. “Can I…”

He swayed sideways. The last thing he knew before he passed out was the hands of Castiel, catching him before he could hit the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

_ Castiel _

Castiel sat on a chair in his private apartments that he’d never once sat in before. It was the one just outside his own bedroom. It was uncomfortable. He thought it had probably only been put there for decorative purposes. But now here he was, sitting in it, and staring down at the floor.

Big, bold, red splashes dotted the soft cream carpet. They were slowly darkening to an angry rust. Castiel couldn’t stop staring at them. He’d done everything he could not to jolt Dean as he’d carried him through to the bedroom, but Dean was heavy and the suit made him heavier. Was he looking at the crucial blood that could have kept Dean alive, if he’d only had the strength to be more careful?

The suit. Dean. The Hunter.  _ Dean.  _ His mind should have been reeling, overflowing, totally overwhelmed, but the thoughts seemed to be more like tiny points of phosphorescence in a huge still sea of darkness. He wanted Dean to be alive. Anything else felt too small and stupid to pay attention to, right now.

When he closed his eyes, he saw Dean kneeling in front of him outside his door. His Hunter’s hood pushed back. Blood on his face.

He opened his eyes. Blood on the carpet.

The door to his bedroom hissed open, and a tall blond figure stepped out. Castiel was on his feet before he remembered making the decision to stand, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Is he…?”

“He’s alive.”

Castiel’s head dropped. The relief was a wave that he had to withstand in silence for a few moments.

“Balthazar,” he croaked, when he could speak. “Thank you.”

“It’s my job,” Balthazar said. He was cleaning his hands with a med-wipe, looking at Castiel curiously. “But I usually do my work in a hospital. And not on people wearing so much leather. Or carrying guns. I know this is still technically America, but it’s not twenty-thirty. I thought those things were left behind for good reason.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say. Balthazar was the only doctor he had been able to think of, to call - the same doctor who had managed to provide him with good insulin, earlier in the day. They knew each other just well enough to provide favours, and no better.

“Castiel?” came a voice from the public apartments of his home - a voice that Castiel recognised. Anna, his lawyer. He leaned closer to Balthazar.

“Is he still in the suit?”

“No, I had to take it off.”

“Is it hidden?”

Balthazar gave him another odd look, though this time it was liberally sauced with enjoyment at a clearly impending deception.

“It can be,” he said, and disappeared back into Castiel’s room just as Anna walked through the door from the public apartments into Castiel’s private space. The blueish light highlighted her strong cheekbones, her narrow jaw.

“Castiel,” she said. “What is going on? I just got back from Heaven and there were signs of extreme coronary distress on the apartments’ readings.”

Castiel gritted his teeth, and made an effort to relax his hands. He cleared his throat.

“Yes,” he said. “Unfortunately, Dean Winchester arrived on my doorstep. He’d been attacked. I called a doctor immediately.”

“He came  _ here?” _

“He did.” Castiel had been putting off thinking about why. Did Dean know that Castiel was - was the Angel who had helped him in the Underlight? He did his best to brush the thought aside. Right now, he had to fend off Anna.

“You didn’t have him sent to the hospital?”

“No,” Castiel said.

“Why not?”

Castiel opened his mouth, without an answer. Anna had no idea that Dean was anyone particularly important to Castiel; she certainly had no idea about what had happened at the party, about the kiss. If Castiel told her the truth - if he said,  _ because he arrived at my house and I couldn’t bear the thought of him being more than a few yards away from me until I knew he was safe -  _ she’d be perplexed and concerned. No doubt concerned enough to make a report.

“Castiel, why didn’t he go to hospital?” Anna repeated.

“No nex,” said a voice from behind Castiel; Balthazar, striding across towards them with his usual confidence. “Mr Winchester has no nex. They usually charge a great deal more to treat a patient without one, and some even refuse to treat. It was an excellent choice not to risk being turned away, and to call me instead.” Balthazar held out his hand for Anna to shake. “Balthazar.”

“A pleasure,” Anna said, though she didn’t sound certain as she shook his hand. “So… all’s well?”

“Well as can be,” Balthazar said. “I’ve patched him up and the serums should take care of the worst of it within twenty-four hours. The bruising and cuts to the face are deprioritised, so they’ll take longer. Perhaps a few days. They’ll get their turn after his insides recover from their brief stint as his outsides.” He glanced at the floor under their feet. “Bloody mess he left, didn’t he?”

“He’d passed out,” Castiel said. “I carried him through. It’s my fault.”

Anna had her eyes on him, judging, weighing.

“Can’t blame blood for bleeding, I suppose,” Balthazar said. “Well, I’ll be on my way. You can go in there, he’ll probably come round soon. He’s fine to eat and drink after twenty-four hours and not before. You can slap a hydration pad on him whenever. Nothing too spicy or any alter-foods for a week, just to be on the safe side. I left a salve on the table in there, so he can apply that if the pain gets bad. Let him sleep as much as he wants to. Check’ll be in the post.”

“The… ?”

“I’ll bill you for the credits,” Balthazar clarified. He shook Castiel’s hand, and left.

There was a silence left in his wake. Anna was still watching Castiel, as though waiting for him to explain himself.

“He just arrived,” Castiel said. He wanted to go in and see Dean, wanted to see with his own eyes that he was alive and still breathing. When he’d caught Dean just before falling, he’d been so sure that it was already too late. There had been so much blood. The pain on his face had been so clear.

“As your lawyer,” Anna said, “I have to advise you to send him home as soon as you can. You know that by giving him treatment here, your apartment is now classed as a med-bay and you are his primary caregiver? He could sue you for all sorts of malpractices, just for the fact that your room isn’t sterilised and the bed isn’t a hoverbed, and -”

“Dean wouldn’t do that.”

“You barely know him,” Anna said. “You’ve met him at parties.”

_ And, apparently, in the Underlight,  _ Castiel thought to himself.  _ Maybe I don’t know if Dean would sue, but I know the Hunter wouldn’t sue.  _

_ And Dean  _ is  _ the Hunter. Dean is the Hunter. _

Saying it over again in his head didn’t help it to make sense. Dean Winchester, famed party guest and suavest bachelor of the Up, was the Hunter. 

“It’s alright,” Castiel said. “I have it handled.”

“Do you even know how he was wounded?”

The suit. The hood. Dean - the Hunter - had clearly been hurt in the Underlight. Castiel swallowed.

“No,” he said.

“Castiel, the organisation don’t like… blood on the carpets, so to speak.” Anna glanced around them, at the floor. “You left Heaven with a job to do. You’re supposed to be a wealthy socialite. That’s your cover. You do important recon work up here. So as your handler, I also advise you to send him home as soon as you can. No one can know you’re an Angel up here or it blows your whole persona. Having someone turn up covered in blood doesn’t fit with that persona. People will ask questions…”

_ No one can know you’re an Angel up here…  _ what if Dean already knew? What if that was why he’d come to the apartment - to confront Castiel?

“I’ll answer any questions,” Castiel said aloud, firmly. “I’ll tell them that I was just doing the right thing. Helping someone who needed it.”

“People don’t help each other in the Up,” Anna said.

“People don’t help each other in this city,” Castiel snapped back, before he could stop himself. “But I do. So he stays.”

Anna eyed him.

“This is concerning, Castiel,” she said. “I will have to report it. Naomi herself might take an interest.”

“Do whatever you have to do,” Castiel said, turning away to head into his bedroom. “I’m not sending him home until he wants to go.” He left her standing there in the corridor, forgetting about her as soon as the door slid shut behind him. Inside his room, there was more blood on the floor - but none on the sheets of his bed, where Dean was lying. Balthazar must have used a steriliser to clean them off quickly before leaving, to prevent any chance of infection.

Castiel came closer to the bed. Dean had his eyes closed, with the covers pulled up over his stomach, but leaving his chest bare. It rose and fell steadily. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, Castiel watched him, and tried to wrap his head around everything that had just happened.

Dean was alive. He was safe. That was the most important thing.

And he was also the Hunter. The masked vigilante, the renegade do-gooder whom Castiel should have reported to the Angels months and months ago, to get him off the streets. This was the person who had fought by his side, had his back, helped people with him. Argued with him endlessly about the Angels and what they stood for. Brought insulin for a scared boy with him. Kissed him at a party.

Castiel shifted on the bed. Of all the places in the city, when he’d been hurt, Dean had come here. Did that mean Dean knew he was the Angel who’d been working alongside him all this time? Surely, there was no way. But why else would he come? He was so popular, everyone knew him. He had to have friends, lovers, that he could go to in dire need. But instead, he’d come here.

Dean stirred, frowning, and Castiel found himself reaching for Dean’s hand.

“It’s alright,” he said. “You’re safe.”

“What - where am -” Dean mumbled a series of incoherent half-questions, opening his eyes muzzily. Finally, he focused on Castiel. “You?”

“Me,” Castiel said.

“What happened? Am I…” He looked down at his own bare chest, and then at Castiel’s hand holding his own. “Did we… ?”

Castiel dropped his hand as though it had burned him.

“No! No.” 

“Oh.”

Castiel wasn’t sure whether Dean sounded pleased or disappointed. Perhaps just even more confused.

“You don’t remember coming to my door?” Castiel asked.

“Your door?” Dean tried to sit up, and his face creased, and he fell back onto the bed. “Argh! My - oh, shit, my stomach - my - is it - it was all fucked up, am I -” He lifted the covers, and ran his hand over whatever he saw there, shielded from Castiel’s eyes by the blanket. “It’s - you - did you do this?”

“I called a doctor,” Castiel said.

“Fuck. Shit. Did - I’m - naked,” Dean said.

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “Um, that was him. The doctor. Not me. I just carried you in here.”

“Where… where are my… clothes?”

“You mean your suit?” Castiel asked. Dean went very quiet. He set the covers back down over his body, not meeting Castiel’s eyes. “Why did you come here?” Castiel pressed. If Dean knew he was an Angel, Castiel needed to hear it now. Perhaps then he and Dean could strike some sort of deal. He wouldn’t report Dean to the Angels, if Dean didn’t share what he knew about Castiel with the party scene in the Up.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face.

“I don’t know, man,” he said. “I don’t know.” 

“You arrived in an elevator. And you didn’t go to a hospital or to a friend’s. You came to me.”

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Dean said hoarsely. His face was still creased a little in pain.

“Nowhere else…”

“Look, man, you’ve seen the suit, you might as well know. I’m not like you. I don’t belong in the Up. I don’t even live here. I don’t live anywhere.” Dean swallowed, obviously with some effort, painfully. “I party up here and I sleep wherever the party is ‘cause I can’t afford a place of my own.” 

“You - what?” Dean Winchester didn’t have a place to live in the Up? But he always arrived to parties looking so sleek, so classic, so handsome. How was that possible without a place to call home? “Why don’t you just get a place in the Mid?”

Dean looked at him for a long moment, and then said,

“Fuck it. No point lying to you now. I only stay ‘cause if I’m up here, the Angels don’t pay me any attention and I can get on with what I really wanna do, which is clearing up the streets of the Underlight. I can’t do that in the Mid. They watch everyone there too closely. But they assume if you’re living the high life in the Up, you wouldn’t screw with the system ‘cause it’s working for you. So here I am.” He raised his hands, and then let them fall back down onto the bed. “Now you know. So, report me to the Angels if you have to, or whatever. Not like I can stop you.”

Castiel stared down at him, his mind racing. From the way Dean was talking -  _ I’m not like you, I don’t belong in the Up -  _ it sounded as though he didn’t know that Castiel was an Angel. It sounded as though he really thought Castiel was the rich socialite that he pretended to be. And if that was true, then Castiel was safe. But he had to be sure.

“In the Underlight,” he said, “do you work alone?”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“That sounds like the kinda question someone gets asked before they get murdered,” he said.

“I did just save your life,” Castiel offered drily. “It’d be a shame to waste it with murder.”

Now Dean looked pensive. He was fiddling with the covers on the bed.

“There are some good people who try to help in the Underlight,” he said, eventually. 

“Who?”

“I don’t know. They don’t know who I am, and I don’t know who they are.”

_ Half correct,  _ Castiel thought to himself. And now he was satisfied. Dean didn’t know his identity. Didn’t know that he was an Angel at all, let alone specifically the Angel who helped him in the Underlight. That meant his position here in the Up was safe, and so was his position in the organisation. They didn’t have to know about his trips to the Underlight, about how he’d been working with a vigilante. About how that vigilante was now lying in his bed, naked. All they needed to know was that Dean, another wealthy person from the Up, had been attacked and had come to Castiel for help. That was a story he could easily spin. 

Though - if he really wanted to get in with the higher-ups at the organisation, stop being held under the watchful gaze of his handler, and stop constantly having to host the ridiculous parties and play nice with the people of the Up just to keep an eye on them and listen for any signs of insubordination - if he wanted to move up the ladder, he could even report Dean as a vigilante.

The thought wasn’t as tempting as it was vile. 

But if he was higher up in the organisation, he could start calling some shots. He could introduce the idea of an Underlight division and be taken seriously; a whole squad of Angels dedicated to keeping the peace in the forgotten belly of the city. All those people he could help, all the good he could do, just by turning Dean in and gaining himself trust and respect among the higher Angels. All it would take would be one call. Dean would be taken to an Angel base. He’d be treated fairly and justly. Castiel wouldn’t be doing anything wrong _ ,  _ not according to the law.

He looked down at Dean. In the time he’d spent thinking, Dean’s eyes had fallen closed again and his breathing had become regular. He’d fallen asleep. Castiel’s heart twisted in his chest, the familiar sensation that came with looking at Dean - only now it was Dean in his own bed, sleeping, hurt, vulnerable.

It wouldn’t be wrong according to the law to turn Dean in. But it still felt...  _ wrong.  _ However much good it might eventually bring, however many people in the Underlight he might eventually be able to help by doing it, Castiel couldn’t hold the intention to betray Dean in his mind without feeling revolted by himself. Dean had come to him for help. Dean had trusted him. He’d had nowhere else to go. If Castiel turned him in, that meant Dean had nowhere to go at all.

In his sleep, Dean groaned. Castiel hesitated, and then put his hand back in Dean’s.

“It’s alright,” he murmured. “It’s alright. You’re safe.”

He stroked his thumb over Dean’s knuckle. Dean gripped his hand tighter in sleep.

When Dean next woke up, he was calling out. Castiel sprinted from his kitchen to his bedroom, ready to battle off some kind of intruder, and found only Dean, lost in his own memory and confused. Whatever had happened to him, it had scrambled his thoughts.

Castiel asked if Dean remembered who had attacked him. Dean murmured one word, and Castiel’s eyes went wide.


	5. Chapter 5

_ Dean _

Dean woke up in Castiel’s room, with the ghost of a touch on the inside of his palm. He closed his empty fist, and tried to sit up. Pain shot through him like slow lightning, forking out white-hot from his stomach to the tips of his fingers, the top of his head. He made an undignified noise and sank back into the sheets.

“You keep doing that,” said a voice from across the room. Dean turned his head, and realised that Castiel was sitting at a desk in the far corner, holding a book and looking at him over the top of it. “One time I’m hoping you’re going to wake up and remember not to move.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean flapped a hand at him. The smell of this room was familiar now, and the shape of it. He wasn’t taking so long to remember. “How long’s it been?”

Castiel tapped his nex.

“Four hours.”

“Four? It feels like days.”

“You keep dreaming. Maybe the dreams make it feel longer.”

“How do you know I’m dreaming?”

“You mutter to yourself.”

“Creepy,” Dean said. “Creepy that you’re hearing that.”

“I can go,” Castiel said. “You just kept calling out, asking where you were, when you woke up. But if you want me to leave…”

“No, you’re okay. I’m bored, anyway.” Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “No more sleep for now.” The dreams he’d been having had mostly been about being back down in the Underlight, surrounded by shadowy figures, getting kicked in the face while blood spilled horrendously out of his stomach.

"Are you in pain?"

"Nah, I’m good."

Castiel gave him an unconvinced look, and Dean swallowed.

"I mean. My insides hurt and my face kinda hurts. But I got beaten up, so like, what do I expect."

"There's cream on the table beside you," Castiel said gesturing to the little bedside cabinet at Dean's side. "The doctor said you should apply it if you're experiencing pain."

"Right, right. Yeah." Dean looked over at the cream. It was in a bottle that looked as though it were made of glass - heavy. And it was too far away to reach without sitting up. "I'll do it later," he said.

"You should do it now."

"I'm good, man."

"Are you just not wanting to sit up?"

Dean had never enjoyed Castiel's occasional moments of perspicacity. They always seemed to come when he was really trying to cover something up, and Castiel wouldn't let him.

"No," he said, but it wasn't convincing.

Castiel got up from his desk, and moved across the room to the bed. He sat by Dean's side, and then picked up the bottle.

"Dude. C'mon. You're not gonna go all Mother Jameela on me."

"I believe it was Mother Theresa," Castiel said. He unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured a liberal amount of the thick orangey cream onto his palm.

"Seriously, you don't have to -"

"Do you want cream to stop the pain?" Castiel said, holding the puddle of lotion in his hand. The question was asked without impatience, but when Dean answered, it still came out sheepishly.

"Yes."

"Then let me do this."

Castiel seemed tense, Dean realised. Was this because of - of the kiss that they'd shared? Was he worried, again, that Dean was getting too attached to him?

Castiel started to dab the lotion onto his face. His touch was just the way Dean remembered it - firm, forgiving, meaningful. Dean felt the wave of shivers chase up his spine all over again.

“Stop moving.”

“It stings," Dean said, which was true, even if it wasn't the reason why he'd shifted.

“The doctor said it would help."

“He said you should put a cream that hurts on where it hurts?”

Castiel fixed Dean with a look.

"Okay, okay. Not moving." 

He submitted to the ministrations, letting Castiel dab the salve over his wounds. He found himself watching Castiel's handsome face, the concentration on it, the care. Castiel caught his eye, and half-smiled at him awkwardly, and carried on.

"Why are you doing this?" Dean couldn't help asking. He watched the expression on Castiel's face go complicated.

"You were hurt," he said. "You needed help. So I'm helping you."

"You barely know me," Dean said. "Just from parties. And I turn up on your doorstep, and you let me in? Call a doctor? Let me stay?"

"I could ask you why you came to my door," Castiel said back, seeming to go on the offensive. Dean shrugged.

"You already did," he said. "I told you. Nowhere else to go."

"You have other friends. Other people who care about you."

"Yeah, well. Not really." And Dean meant that literally. He knew people who cared about him, but not  _ really _ , not in a way that was real. Sure, they liked him, but they'd never shared a single moment with him that actually meant something. It had been drink and charm and forgetting, and that was all. His life up here was just glitz and glamour, a sequinned dress but on a hanger, no body underneath.

In his moment of need, in his mortal choice, Dean had known that he trusted the couple of honest moments with Castiel, brief glances and conversations and a kiss, more than he trusted any of the things given to him by anyone else in the city right now. With Sam gone, he’d done what he’d had to. He'd followed that feeling of trust, of safety. He'd followed it here. And he hadn't been wrong.

"You do have people who care," Castiel insisted. "I've seen you at every party with a dozen people hanging on your every word."

"Yeah, well. I came here, didn't I. And turns out it wasn’t a bad choice." Castiel paused, his fingers resting on Dean's cheek.

"What do you mean?" he said. Dean had the sudden urge to ask to kiss him again, but he pushed it away. If he wanted to ever do that again, he needed to convince Castiel that this meant nothing to him, that he wouldn't make an annoyance of himself afterwards by having too many feelings. He needed to play it cool.

"Well, you know. You didn't kick me out yet. Must be my magnetism. Maybe I'll go try the same trick next door, tomorrow."

It was an odd thing to say and the closeness in Castiel's expression faded. He grimaced slightly.

"I'm sure Anna would enjoy that very much."

"Your lawyer lives next door?"

"She likes to be on hand," Castiel said. Dean hesitated, and then said,

"Well, she's cute. Maybe I will try it."

There. That had to be convincing enough that he wasn't taking this too seriously, didn't it? But it didn't seem to have reassured Castiel in the slightest. In fact, he looked almost upset. 

"You're all done," he said. "You should get some more sleep."

He moved to get up, and Dean half-reached for him with one hand, and then stopped himself. He looked down at his hand as though at a betrayer. What had that been? Waifishly trying to clasp for Castiel's sleeve? 

Whatever it was, it seemed to have softened Castiel's moment of anger. He paused, and then put his hand against Dean's - not holding, just touching.

"I can be here," he said.

Dean opened his mouth to tell him to go, to say he didn't want that, didn't need it. And then he remembered the dreams, the slash to his stomach, the kicks to his face, the horrible swirl of it in the dark of his sleep. Even just thinking about it, he inadvertently pressed his hand harder against Castiel's.

"Sleep," Castiel insisted. "I'll be here."

Dean didn't know what to say to accept the touch, the nearness. Instead, he just did as he was told, and closed his eyes. Sleep had been hovering closer than he thought, and it overtook him almost at once, even more easily with the pain fading from his face. And if he felt Castiel's touch shift from the back of his hand to holding it, one thumb stroking the length of his index finger, as he drifted off - well, who was to say he wasn't already too far gone into sleep to move? And who was to say it wasn't a twitch of muscle in a dream, which made him hold Castiel's hand back?

He was never going to convince Castiel he felt nothing for him, was Dean's last thought. Because between the sensation of his touch and the fact of his having saved Dean's life, he was starting to feel a fair amount of something.

When he woke up, Castiel was still sitting beside him. Hand still in Dean's.

Dean watched him, his face lit by the soft sol-panel overhead, which cast a classy and slightly blueish glow. Castiel wasn't doing anything, wasn't reading, or watching something, or listening to anything through his nex - the lights on it were out. He was just sitting there, staring out into space. His expression was - sad, Dean thought. Castiel looked sad.

"Hey," he said, and Castiel swallowed and looked down at him, and let go of his hand. Dean wanted, again, to chase after it, but this time he kept himself in check.

"Hello, Dean."

"You didn't have to…" Dean gestured with one hand at Castiel, hoping to encompass the time Castiel had given to simply sitting with him. Castiel lifted one shoulder.

"I was happy to," he said.

"Mmm. How long was I out?"

“Not too long.”

“You didn’t look too happy about it,” Dean said. He was still half-asleep and the words came out muzzy.

"Not too happy?"

"Just now. When I woke up. You didn't look happy."

"Ah." Castiel seemed to reflect for a moment, and then said, "Perhaps not."

"Anything I can do?"

"Nothing it's fair for me to ask." 

Dean snorted, coming fully awake, now. "Uh. I'm sitting in your bed, having bled all over your house, and you're talking to me about what it's fair to ask? How long have I even been here altogether?"

"Seven hours. It's three in the morning."

"Three in the - dude, why aren't you asleep?"

"You're sitting in my bed," Castiel said wryly.

"... Dude," said Dean again, but lower, with more emphasis. "You're kidding. I know you have other beds in this place. You should've gone and got some rest. Or told me to move if you wanted to be in here. Seriously. You need to sleep."

"I didn't want to leave you alone," Castiel said, and damn it, damn  _ him.  _ How was Dean supposed to pull away and keep a good distance between them, like Castiel wanted, when he said things like that? It made him feel - what even was that, his chest twisting up in a way that felt good and bad, both at once?

"You need to sleep," Dean said firmly, trying to focus on that. "I'll get out of your bed. Just point me in the direction of the nearest guest room." He managed to sit up - it still  _ hurt _ , hadn't the doctoring kicked in yet? But he sat up all the same, and looked at Castiel expectantly.

"Ah. Yes. Guest room," Castiel said, and then went quiet.

"What?"

"I don't know."

There was a moment of awkward silence, in which Dean had no idea what was going on in Castiel’s head. Castiel was staring over at the far side of his own bed, looking lost in thought.

"Castiel. You need rest. You need me out of your bed." Castiel said nothing. He looked down at the floor. "What?"

"I don't want to sleep," Castiel said suddenly. "I want to show you something."

"Show me… Castiel, it's three in the -"

"So I'll be late for a party tomorrow," Castiel said impatiently. "Or a wedding, or a meeting, or another pointless society function. It doesn't matter." He stood up, and said, "It's not far. Will you come?"

Dean thought about the pain in his stomach and the way sleep was still calling his name - and then he thought about Castiel sitting with him, unmoving, for hours. Thought about him looking sad. 

Right now, Dean realised, looking up at Castiel, he didn't look sad.

That was enough.

"I'll come," Dean said.

He sat up.

“I will need some clothes,” he said.

Castiel opened his mouth, seemed to actually redden a little, and then went over to a set of drawers to one side of the room. He pulled out a t-shirt and a pair of soft-looking pyjama bottoms, and brought them over to the bed.

“Do you need…” he said awkwardly.

“Turn around,” Dean said. “I’ve got this.”

He shimmied into the pyjamas awkwardly, still lying down for as much of it as he could. He had to take the covers off to do it, and even with Castiel turned away and unable to see him, Dean was incredibly aware of his nakedness before he managed to bend enough to slip the pyjama bottoms over his feet and up his legs. The t-shirt said  _ AnAc 2509.  _ Dean had no idea what that meant, but the shirt was oversized and comfortable.

“I’m ready,” he said, and Castiel turned back towards him.

He got up with difficulty. His stomach hurt almost comically badly. He’d been hurt before, of course, in the Underlight - before Sam had left, they’d spent half their time patching each other up after trips down into the lowest part of the city. But nothing had ever come close to this. Even the time when Dean had broken his arm, felt it bend the wrong way and snap gruesomely, horribly, even that hadn’t been this bad. When his arm had broken, he’d thought he might lose his arm. This time, he’d thought he might lose his life.

Castiel’s hand was on his elbow, the other at his lower back. Dean tried not to focus on how good it felt even through the pain - tried not to think about how he wished Castiel would press his hands a little harder, maybe give Dean something to think about other than his injuries.

Those weren’t thoughts Castiel wanted him to have. Dean set them aside as best he could. But it was hard, when Castiel supported him across the room with quiet strength. When he was so close, so serious, so devoid of shallow sympathy. He was, somehow, all heart, and Dean felt it physically - Castiel was scooping away dirt, chipping away rock, tunnelling himself down into Dean’s chest. How could someone so solemn and real only want to spend time with him for fun? The thought hurt.

Something had to be truly wrong with Dean, for someone like Castiel to only consider him as a one-night stand at most.

“We’re going outside,” Castiel said, taking Dean over to a window on the left side of his room and pushing it open; Dean realised that it was a glass door, and beyond it there was a balcony. And on the balcony, to one side, there were some steps.

“Steps,” Dean said, and pointed, because they were rare and that was what everyone did when they saw them, these days. With elevators and hover-buses and Wings for the Angels, no one needed steps anymore.

“Steps,” Castiel agreed.

“Can we go up them?” Dean asked, excited despite himself and despite the pain in his stomach. He should have asked for some more of that salve before they came out here, but it was too late now.

He expected Castiel to say no, it was too late, it was too dark, they could do it some other time - but he was surprised. 

“We’re going to,” Castiel confirmed, and Dean felt his heart leap.

Together, they ascended. Dean went first, his footsteps careful. His feet were still bare and the metal was chilly. He held onto the rail with one hand. The steps had gaps between each rung, and Dean had climbed so few sets of stairs in his life that he found himself momentarily dizzy.

“Are you alright?”

“Heights were never my thing.”

“Ah. You might not like where we’re going.”

“As long as I get to keep my feet on solid ground, I’m okay.”

“You’ll be alright, then,” Castiel said. He was close behind Dean, matching their footsteps as they climbed. Dean felt it again - that little pull of familiarity that had come when Castiel had said hello. It was as though he were somehow used to having Castiel walk with him.

They were going high, high up. Castiel’s apartment, the nicest in his building, was the penthouse. And if they were climbing, that had to mean they were going - what, to the roof? Dean had never been on the roof of a building, before. He hadn’t even known it was allowed.

_ Was  _ it allowed? The steps definitely felt a little homemade, Dean noticed now. The metal was roughly welded, with no coat of paint.

“Is this legit?” Dean asked. “Where we’re going?”

“What do you mean, legit?” Castiel asked. The still air of the Up, carefully controlled, was somehow not quite so still as they scaled the building. It snatched at Castiel’s words.

“I mean, are we allowed to be doing this?”

“Allowed?” Castiel said, sounding amused. “I didn’t know you cared about something being allowed.”

Dean went quiet, and climbed. That probably meant it wasn’t allowed, he thought. And maybe Castiel wasn’t quite so much in the pocket of the Angels as he’d sounded, back at the last party when they’d argued about it. He couldn’t be, if he was breaking the rules to come up here.

“I built the staircase myself, if that’s what you’re asking,” Castiel said.

“Why?”

“It’s worth it. You’ll see.”

“Nearly there,” Dean said, seeing the top of the staircase approaching - and the wall beside him was falling away as they reached the top of the building. Dean looked back down to Castiel as soon as he hit the last step, his breath coming quickly, his stomach throbbing with the pain. 

“Made it,” Castiel said.

“Right. And you brought me up here because…”

Castiel smiled slightly, and looked away from Dean; he turned, instead, towards the roof of the building. Dean frowned, and followed his gaze - and then his mouth fell open.

“Those - no. Are those…?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve - but I’ve only seen pictures -”

“I know. They’re real, though.”

Dean stared, and stared, and stared.

_ Trees.  _

Stretching high above them, great leafy branches spreading wide, there were  _ trees. _

There were no trees in the Underlight, or in the Mid. Not anymore. They couldn’t breathe in the metallic air, couldn’t feed themselves with the sun so hidden by the towering buildings of the ever-growing city. But the city needed plants to survive, so people said, even with the air-sterilisers always whirring in every building, even with clean energy sources powering every piece of tech in the city. So instead of trying to make them grow in the deep-down belly of Central, they were planted at the very top - that was the story, anyway. Dean had heard it told that way. he hadn’t believed it. It had been hard to believe that trees had ever even existed at all, sometimes.

But here they were.

Dean took one step forward, off the metal of the last stair, and onto soft wild grass. He curled his bare toes into it. He’d never felt anything like it. He picked his foot up, and then put it down again slightly to the left. The grass was flattened where he’d stepped.

“Am I allowed to tread on it?”

“Yes. It’s fine. It grows back.”

Castiel came to stand beside him. 

“Dean?” he said. “Are you alright?”

Trees. Actual trees.

“I’m okay,” said Dean, barely hearing his own voice.

“Come on,” Castiel said, and led him into paradise.

The flat roof of the building was an oasis. It was lit by tiny sol-panels that floated, casting their white-blue light like fireflies, feeding the plants with their glow. Underfoot, the place was a meadow; the grass grew ankle-high, with flowers poking up through - some shyly, others tall and spindly and unselfconscious. And the trees, the trees were thick-trunked and dark-leaved in the low light, sleeping giants, their twigs and branches moving and swaying slightly in a breeze.

A  _ breeze.  _ The air moved on its own, here. Dean closed his eyes and breathed in. The air smelled overwhelming: delicious like perfume only lighter and sharper, but also thick and cloying and rich somehow, wet and heavy, and Dean realised that it was the earth under the grass. Soil. It was real soil. And the breeze was so quiet, but it moved.

Something that had been missing in Dean was here. Some outstretched hands, deep in his heart, had been given what they’d been reaching for. Dean bent down and lightly ran his finger down a blade of grass. It was soft and fibrous and alive. This thing that he was touching, it was alive. He wanted to cry, quite suddenly and embarrassingly.

The breeze moved again. Dean breathed. And he could truly  _ breathe.  _ He could feel the coolness of the air - not room temperature, not controlled, but real coldness in the air, and it was hitting the bottom of his lungs. His hand was shaking when he reached two fingers to gently cup the tiny bloom of a purple flower.

“How do they get water? Where do the roots go?” Dean asked.

“Down the middle of the building,” Castiel answered, from a little distance away. “There’s a hollow place in the centre of each building. No one knows how far down the roots stretch. But these trees are hundreds of years old, so probably far.”

“They’re so small, though,” Dean said. The trees were barely seven or eight stories high.

“They’re tall. For trees.”

Dean lay his hand flat on the grass, and then sat down. Under him, the grass was soft and smelled a little acrid and delicate. Blades of it poked at his skin through Castiel’s pyjamas. He grabbed a fistful of it in his hands, and then let go, and then did it again.

“Holy shit,” he murmured.

He looked up, and saw that Castiel was a little way off, between two trees. Dean watched him for a few moments, and then breathed out, and lay back in the grass.

Above him, he could see the branches of trees spreading out, their leaves bathed blueish-green by the floating sol-panels - and by the moon. 

Dean stared up at her. She hung above him, her silver face brighter and clearer than he’d ever seen it from a balcony, or from behind a window. She beamed at him, and the breeze murmured, and the trees seemed to arch their branches into its touch.

It was alive. This whole place up here was alive. This was the city, Dean thought suddenly, this was it, this was her - not the spire of Heaven, not the Angels, not the respect they demanded. Not the Up, either, with its parties and its glamour.  _ This,  _ this was the city. This was alive and real. This was growth where it shouldn’t be, tenacious stupid pointless life, going on because it had to, because it was bursting full of the need to. It was like the people of the Underlight, it was Samandriel and Hannah, still putting down their roots where they could and growing and holding on even though it made no sense, and they had nothing to live for except more living. This was the city Dean fought for. Stoic. Quiet. Fiercely fucking still  _ alive. _ And completely beautiful.

“How did we let this go,” Dean murmured. “They say everywhere used to be like this. How did we let it go.”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, closer than Dean had thought, within easy earshot. Dean sat up, and looked at him. “Maybe it’s like nexes.”

“Nexes?”

“You know. Everyone thinks it’s cringe-worthy and backwards not to have one. And preachy. Maybe liking this… more than the buildings… maybe it felt stupid, back then.”

“It’s stupid that it was stupid,” Dean muttered. “If you’re right.”

“It was a different time. You can’t expect them to have known it would end up like this.”

“Maybe not.”

Castiel came over to Dean, and put his hand out.

Dean hesitated for half a moment, and then took it. He let Castiel pull him to his feet.

“Walk with me?” Castiel said. And he was just a little closer than Dean would expect him to stand. He wasn’t moving away, either. Dean tried not to look down at his lips, and thought he’d probably failed.

“Sure,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah. Sure.”


	6. Chapter 6

_ Castiel _

They'd reached the first of the trees. Castiel watched Dean put his hand against its thick trunk, running his fingers over the coarse bark. 

"I've never felt…" he said.

"Try the leaves," Castiel said. "They're soft."

Dean explored this little patch of the Forest slowly, with Castiel by his side. His expression never lost its unselfconscious wide-eyed wonder. When they reached the edge of the building, they paused together, looking out.

"There she is," Dean said. "Central."

His tone sounded almost bleak. Castiel could understand why. From up here, they could see the scope of the city; the glow of Heaven’s spire with its messages encouraging respect and obedience; the brilliance of the Up; the yellowish haze of the Mid. Far, far below, Castiel imagined he could just make out a quiet whitish glow from the Underlight. So many buildings with their interconnected spiderweb bridges. So many people behind the windows. So many rules, Castiel thought, that we just made up for ourselves and then punish ourselves with - you belong there, I belong here, I can have this and you can't, you live there and I don't.

And above it all, now, they could see the Forest. On every building's flat roof, a copse of trees, a meadow.

"It's..." Dean said. "I always thought - I don't know - from the pictures, I always thought trees wouldn't be anything special."

"They aren't, really," Castiel said. "Just trees."

"But I've never seen them before."

They stood still for a while, in the phosphorescent light of the little blueish suns that kept the trees and plants alive. Castiel thought a little about the way that trees had once been ordinary, and a little about what it meant that the trees were up here now, and a lot about the distance between himself and Dean.

It wasn't much.

He could close it, if he wanted to. He could kiss Dean again. He thought Dean might be alright with that. But Dean was alright with kissing a lot of people, and it wouldn't mean anything. And in this moment full of meaning, the two of them standing alone at the top of their city, their world - the two watchers of the Underlight, the pairs of helping hands, the Angel and the Hunter - Castiel didn't want to do something cheap. He didn't want to do something that made him just another one in a line that extended far past himself into the future of Dean's conquests. Anna was in that line, if what Dean had said earlier was any indication.

Castiel really, really didn't want Dean to sleep with Anna. 

And he was standing here at the top of Central, in the hushed and beautiful Forest, and he was thinking about Dean and his handler sleeping together. He frustrated himself with the smallness of his thoughts, when he was up here. It was a good way to stop obsessing negatively over minor details, but also a good way to begin obsessing negatively about obsessing negatively over minor details. And there he went again, making things far too complicated.

“We’re so small,” Dean said, on a different but parallel train of thought, apparently.

“Yes.”

He glanced at Castiel.

“What I do in the Underlight…”

Castiel waited.

“I know it must seem weird. A guy like me putting on a leather suit and running around as if I think I can actually change anything.”

“Not so weird as you might think,” Castiel said.

“It feels important when I’m down there,” Dean said. He looked out at the city. “But when I’m up here… I dunno.”

“It’s still important,” Castiel said, turning to face Dean. He glanced at Castiel, making a face.

“You don’t even know what I do down there. You wouldn’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t?” Castiel said. He bit back a hundred answers to that, tried to keep his face neutral.

“Nope. Well, you probably wouldn’t mind the fact that I help people down there, right, I can’t imagine you’re one of those assholes who actually thinks that they deserve to be left to rot.”

“But?” asked Castiel, sensing it coming.

Dean looked out over the city. He pressed his lips together and for a moment, Castiel thought he wasn’t going to say anything else - and then he said quietly,

“How much do you like the Angels? Really?”

Castiel swallowed. He was scrambling for a lie, even as beneath that his mind kicked in. How much  _ did  _ he really like the Angels? How much did he like the fact that they would stop Dean helping people, if they could? How much did he like that it was their rule that kept the people of the Underlight locked away down where there was no sun?

“I don’t know,” he managed.

“I don’t like ‘em,” Dean said.

“None of them?” Castiel couldn’t help asking. Dean said,

“None of the Angels who act like Angels.”

Did that - was that supposed to be a reference to Castiel himself? Was he an Angel who didn’t act like an Angel? He cleared his throat.

“You know,” he said, “the trees up here were planted by Angels.”

Dean looked wrongfooted.

“They were?”

“Yes. When I come up here…” he looked out over the nearest rooftop, the next one along. The floating sol-panels that fed the leaves moved softly in and out of sight, winking like close-up stars. “When I come up here, it reminds me of what the Angels really are. They built a place as beautiful as this.”

Dean was watching him, his expression conflicted.

“Built it,” he said, “and put it out of everyone’s reach, except a very few. You’re right, man. That does sound like the Angels.”

“They did it to keep the city alive,” Castiel said. “They did it to give us clean air.”

“Us who?” Dean asked. “The people in the Underlight? Are they breathing this?”

“You’re twisting what I’m saying,” Castiel said, and he had that rushing feeling in his stomach, the disappointment in himself when he couldn’t defend his own organisation, his own people. Dean dropped his chin, and then held up his hands.

“You just saved my life,” he said. “I don’t wanna argue with you.”

“You do,” Castiel said.

“Well.” Dean managed a smile, and the tension between them eased. “Maybe just a bit.”

Castiel turned to look at him. In his mind, all he could hear was the one word that Dean had said, when Castiel had asked him if he remembered what had happened to him when he’d got hurt. Just one word. And it wasn’t a word that made sense. It wasn’t possible. But Castiel needed to know.

“Dean,” he said. “Have you remembered anything more about how you were wounded?”

Dean’s expression went still, caught in a frown. He opened his mouth, and then closed it, and then tried again.

“I don’t remember anything,” he said blankly. “I just - I can’t explain it. It’s like - like everything goes blurry, or kind of - jagged - I don’t know, it’s like that one time I tried an Ammie pill at a party. Actually, it… it’s  _ exactly  _ like that. It literally feels exactly the same.”

Like an Ammie pill. The forgetfulness drug. Dean had been doped before his body had been dumped, and he’d been left to bleed out? Why would they want to erase his memory before killing him, whoever had done it? 

Unless it hadn’t been Ammie.

Castiel felt his gut sink.

There was one other drug he could think of that induced amnesia. A short-term paralytic, with forgetfulness as a side-effect. But Stills were only issued by…

He swallowed hard.

“But you don’t remember what you were doing, down in the Underlight,” he pressed. “You don’t remember where you were, or who - who did this?”

Dean screwed up his features with the effort to remember.

“I went to go see where the lawyer came from,” he said slowly.

“Lawyer?” Castiel asked, feigning ignorance. He remembered the lawyer from the Underlight. Raphael.

“Yeah. Uh, right, sorry, context. I met a lawyer down in the Underlight. I saved her life.”

Castiel waited for Dean to add that he’d had help. Dean did not add that he’d had help. Castiel glowered to himself quietly as Dean continued.

“She’d been running away down this street. I went there to try to understand what she was doing in the first place, down in the Underlight. She was dressed real nice. She shouldn’t have been there, she didn’t fit. So I went… there was the building, it had a star over the door, and…”

Dean broke off. He shook his head.

“When you woke up,” Castiel said carefully, “I asked you about it. When I asked you who had done this to you, you said…”

After a moment of silence, Dean looked over at Castiel.

“Yeah?” he prompted.

“Angels,” Castiel said. “You said, ‘Angels’.”

Dean’s eyes went wide. He grabbed the side of his head, as though he’d been struck there.

“Crap,” he said. 

“Dean?”

“Crap, crap -  _ right _ \- Angels - I went in there, and -”

Castiel listened to his dawning realisation with a cold, cold hurt in his chest. It couldn’t be, could it? It couldn’t be the organisation who had done this? Why would they beat a man and leave him to die, just for going into a building? For one thing, they had the technology to stop a person cleanly, without blood or pain. For another, what building could possibly be important enough that -

And then Castiel’s cold chest dropped beyond the reach of hurt and into numbness.

“Wait,” he said. “Did you say the sign of a star? Over the door?”

“Yeah…”

Every building started on the ground. Every single one. Even the highest and most beautiful of them all. The spire of Heaven flew up into the sky, leaving all the rest of the world behind; it was untouchable. Castiel had been inside it before. Or at least, he thought he had. He had vague memories, twisting over each other. He’d wondered for a while about it, worried that his nex was suppressing things from him. All the details removed - all except one, a lingering picture, jagged in his mind and blurry with uncertainty, like a stain that his nex had tried and failed to scrub away.

A picture of a neon star. Flickering. Buzzing.

“There was this voice,” Dean was saying, as Castiel tuned back in. “And it was an Angel voice, it was Angel tech, I recognise it because - because I kinda know an Angel. Know of an Angel. He’s - but yeah, in the building I went to, there was Angel tech.” He grabbed Cas’ shoulder. “You know what this means?”

“You found the base of the spire,” Castiel said softly. “You found the way into Heaven.”

Dean let go of his shoulder.

“I mean,” he said. “No, probably not. It’s just gonna be a storage unit for their weapons, or something. Probably. You know, something low-grade, I was thinking.” He gave Castiel an od look. “Heaven itself,” he said, seeming to think about it. “I thought it didn’t have a way in or a way out.”

“Every building does,” Castiel said. He turned away. He couldn’t meet Dean’s eyes. If this was true - if the Angels truly had done this - if they’d beaten Dean and left him for dead in an alley, then -

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, I guess - I guess it - it does.”

If they’d hurt Dean, Castiel would tear it all down. All of it. He had to know, now.

“I have to go,” he said. “I need to speak… with my lawyer.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean said. Castiel turned back towards him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to seem rude. I’m a little...  _ taken aback  _ by the revelation. The Angels, the idea that they might have done this to you.” He put air quotes around  _ taken aback,  _ just to emphasise it. He watched Dean’s face shift, in a way he didn’t understand.

“Right,” he said.

“I want to speak with my lawyer. Anna might know Raphael, you see. She might know who she works with. That could give us more information. You… I mean, give you more information.”

“Raphael,” Dean said, and now he looked as though he’d been hit, but Castiel didn’t have time to stop and think about it. He had to get to Anna. He had to know. And if she told him that Raphael worked with the organisation - Castiel didn’t know what he would do. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped with all his heart that he was wrong.

“Let’s go back down,” Castiel said. “Come on. You need to sleep.”

“You go,” Dean said, pulling his hand away. “I want to stay for a while. Up here.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Dean said resolutely. There was a distance in his tone, a coolness, that felt different and wrong, but Castiel couldn’t stop to ask about it and put it right. If he’d said something rude or brushed Dean off too sharply somehow, he’d have to apologise later.

“Alright. I’ll leave the door back into the apartment unlocked,” Castiel said.

“Got it,” Dean said. Same tone.

Castiel nodded, and turned away. He tried to put that strangeness, that wrongness, between him and Dean out of his mind.

Right now, he just needed answers. He walked back down the steps in a haze of thought, wrenching open the door to his apartment and stumbling across his bedroom. Had it really only been a few minutes ago that he’d been in here with Dean, waiting on him to wake up so that he could take his own hand back, so that he could move? It felt like years ago. He’d spent the time trying not to watch Dean, trying not to think about him, and failing. He’d twisted his mind around picturing the people who’d done this coming back to find Dean, breaking into his house, and Castiel standing up and defending Dean to his last breath.

And now it turned out that if that had truly happened, Castiel would have been fighting people wearing Angel uniforms. Fighting his own.

He would have done it. He knew it like he’d know how to cross his fingers in the dark - without hesitation, without checking. He would have torn his way through each and every one of them to stop them getting to Dean.

Castiel realised that he’d stopped to stare at his own bed, where Dean had been lying. His fists were clenched. And when he heard his bedroom door open, he gritted his teeth. There was only one person that could be, so he didn’t turn around to look at her. Instead, he said,

“Dean was telling me more about how he got attacked.”

“He needs to go home, Castiel,” Anna said.

“No.”

“No?”

“What he needs is to be safe while he heals.”

“He can be safe somewhere that’s not here, Castiel…”

“You can be sure of that, can you?” Castiel said, and now he turned to look at her. Anna was watching him with wide, confused eyes.

“You’re angry?” she said. Castiel almost smiled, coldly, at the understatement. He walked out into the hallway beyond his bedroom door, hearing Anna’s hurried footsteps following after him.

“Castiel,” she said.

“Do we still use Stills?” Castiel asked, rounding on her. Anna’s expression dropped.

“What?”

“The organisation. The Angels. Do we use paralytics on citizens?”

“Why would you ask that?” she said, subdued.

“Answer me.”

“Castiel, if there’s something on your mind -”

“Dean was attacked by someone who drugged him. Someone - or some people - who used a powerful drug to alter his memories. All because he found a door under a sign with a star.”

“Castiel - you shouldn’t - you shouldn’t talk about -”

“A sign with a star,” Castiel insisted. “Did he find the way into Heaven?”

“Castiel!” Anna said, and now she sounded outright frightened. “You know why we can’t talk about this. You know it’s best if you just calm down.” With her eyes full of meaning, she lifted a hand to delicately gesture to the nex on the side of her head.

“Mine is off,” Castiel said, and it came out petulant, like a child who’d been told off for yelling by a grown-up. His knuckles went white as his fists clenched even tighter.

“You think that makes a difference to what they hear through it?” Anna said, barely moving her lips, her words softer than a whisper. Castiel stared at her - she was horrified by him, scared by him. “I don’t want you to get in trouble,” she said.

“Did Dean get attacked by Angels,” Castiel said, and it wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer.

“Castiel, stop this.” 

“Did they hit him with a Still?”

“Stop -”

“Did they leave him to die, alone, in the Underlight? The most powerful organisation - the richest - the - and they just - they just left him there?” Castiel could hardly speak through his anger. “Why? Why would they do that?”

“Stop it.  _ Stop.  _ You’re too angry, you need to relax. Just… just turn on your nex… see it from a more logical and calm… perspective…”

“Is that what  _ your  _ nex is saying I should do?” Castiel snarled.

“You’ll feel better,” Anna murmured, and Castiel could see it in the glaze of her eyes - she was being bathed in brain chemicals by her nex, softening her reactions, soothing her, watering her down. Castiel wondered who she’d be without that thing on. And then, without warning, he felt something spasm through his brain.

_ Here to help,  _ said his nex.

“No,” Castiel said. “Stop. Turn off.” He tapped at it.

_ Would you like to soothe unwanted emotions? _

“No,” Castiel said vehemently. “Go away.” He stabbed at it again with his finger. It should have been turning off, but it wasn’t. 

_ Here to help. _

His heart was pounding. Something was badly wrong. Anna, opposite him, wasn’t moving; she looked as though she were in some kind of stupor.

_ Reducing your anger. _

“No!” Castiel could feel it starting - that bright, white, shining calm. That happiness, all-encompassing and sweet. He felt his hands relax. His eyes lost focus. He felt a smile grow on his face. He felt it cover him like a blanket, a soft gentle blanket, a delightful and easy and comforting blanket, and nothing was wrong, and he didn’t have to worry or do anything because everything was alright, and he didn’t have to care about Heaven or Angels or Dean -

Dean’s face. Into Castiel’s mind, a faint image of Dean’s face. It was something, and Castiel, before he went under completely, threw himself towards the picture and the feeling. Dean’s face, covered in blood, staring up at him, hoping that Castiel would take him in. He could see it, blurry at first but getting clearer. He could see his own hands reaching out to catch Dean before he fell - no hesitation, no concern about the consequences, only the certainty that he had to help. He could feel it in his chest, stronger than happiness, deeper by far. It hurt and it hurt and it hurt and Castiel held onto it.

_ Here to - help,  _ his nex said, but it stuttered, and Castiel had a glimpse of control.

Castiel gritted his teeth, and put his hand up, and dug his fingernails in behind the metal plate on his head, and started to pull.

_ Please do not attempt to remove your nex,  _ said Castiel’s internal voice, but it sounded higher-pitched than usual.  _ Please do not attempt - _

Castiel kept pulling. It hurt. It hurt badly enough that he wasn’t sure he could breathe, but it didn’t matter, because he was keeping going, and in his mind was Dean’s face and in his chest was that sensation, that burning certainty, that absolute knowledge, that painful fact - the fact of what, Castiel didn’t even know, didn’t have words for, but somewhere in a place beyond words was something undeniable and it was keeping Castiel clear as he ripped at the metal in his head.

_ Stop,  _ the nex said.  _ Stop. Stop. _

Castiel didn’t stop. He felt the plate lift away from his head, just a fraction. The pain was a lance through his mind. He dropped to his knees, holding onto that feeling and that feeling only in his chest to keep him sane. 

_ Accessing genesis mode,  _ his nex whispered.

“Get off me,” he heard someone say, and thought it might have been him. “Get off. Get out of my head…”

** _Here to help, _ ** said Castiel’s nex, and it sounded - different - it sounded loud and burning and strong as the feeling in his chest. 

And then, quite suddenly, it was gone. The pain, the sound of his own voice turned against him. Gone. He heard a soft  _ thunk  _ beside him, and after a few moments, he opened his eyes. 

On the floor was his nex. It looked like a simple plate of metal. The technology that altered his brain - the electrics that fired through it, the chemicals it could synthesise inside him, were gone. He put his hand up to his head and felt the skin underneath where it had been; it was soft, hairless, unbroken.

Castiel looked up, and saw Anna trying to focus on him through the lull of her own nex’s chemical hum. He breathed in, and breathed out, and then got to his feet and crossed the room to her. He looked into her eyes, and then jerked his chin towards her nex.

“I don’t know if you can hear me through that thing,” he said. “I don’t know if you’re hearing this, up there in Heaven. But if you are, listen to me now. You would throw a man out into the street to die. I know that it wasn’t a mistake. I know you did it on purpose. The mistake you made was that you did that to Dean Winchester. The mistake you made was letting him find me. And now I’m coming for you. And I’m going to tear it all down.”

Castiel tapped Anna’s nex. It immediately winked out. Anna, her system flooded with chemicals that now were running unchecked, collapsed. Castiel knelt, put her in the recovery position, and then nodded to himself.

They’d heard him. They knew he was coming. And that was just the way he wanted it to be.


	7. Chapter 7

_ Dean _

Dean stood silently on the rooftop.

Before him was spread out the city that was his home. She was lit up in her usual colours, behemoth building sparkling along the sides, great whales harpooned by lightbulbs and glass windows. Far, but not too far, Dean could see the spire of Heaven. Naomi’s face looked out, almost smiling.

_ The City of Central is Founded on Respect. _

Dean could feel his guts twisting. A part of him wanted to be very, very sick off the side of the building. But he held himself in check, jaw clenched, eyes hard. He kept replaying it in his mind, round and round. The moment he’d realised.

_ Raphael, _ Castiel had said. Dean watched his lips make the word, over and over. _ Raphael. Raphael. _

Dean had never told Castiel the name of the lawyer from the Underlight. The only way Castiel could have found out was if one of the other two people at the scene - the lawyer herself, or the Angel - had told him.

_ Taken aback, _Castiel said in Dean’s mind, with air quotes.

The air quotes that Dean knew well. The ones that he’d seen the Angel of the Underlight using, badly, for months. The way his fingers crooked, exaggerated. The way his tone stressed the words unnecessarily.

What if Castiel hadn’t been told the name of the lawyer by the Angel of the Underlight. 

What if he _ was _the Angel of the Underlight.

Dean’s stomach almost heaved. He didn’t want it, didn’t want to think it, didn’t want to even contemplate for a second that it could be true. He wanted to go back in time, to the part where Castiel had stayed with him all night and soothed his dreams - to the part where they’d climbed together into this garden. He wanted Castiel to just be Castiel. Not this. Not an Angel. _ Anything _but this.

Stupid. He’d been stupid. 

He’d thought that Castiel really cared for him. Obviously, he’d just been told by his Angel superiors to keep a close eye on Dean, keep him captive until they could show up and make an arrest or just finish him off. It was all too clear. The person Dean thought he’d known - he’d imagined him. Imagined the warmth between them. Imagined the sincerity in Castiel’s voice, the care in the way that they’d touched. And the kiss…

It had been nothing. It had all been nothing.

Dean held himself absolutely still.

Maybe the person, Castiel, hadn’t been real. But the way Dean had - the things that Dean had been feeling -

Stupid. They were stupid. But they weren’t fake. You could feel something real for someone that wasn’t real at all, it turned out. Dean wanted to be sick. He wanted to talk to Sam - not about Castiel, not about any of it, just to hear the sound of his voice. He pulled out the phone that he always kept with him, the battered little brick. He typed in Sam’s number, and hit dial.

Nothing. Of course. The phone had barely worked in years, and it had been less than a day since he’d last used it.

If Sam were here, right now, he’d be pulling a face and crossing his arms.

_ Okay, _ he’d be saying. _ So Castiel was lying to keep you here. Make it easy for the Angels to find you. Are you gonna actually stay here and make their job easy? _

“What if I am,” Dean muttered aloud. There was no one around to think he was losing it, after all. He wasn’t completely sure, but he’d always read that trees couldn’t hear or think.

_ They tried to kill you, _ Sam said. _ They’ll do it again. _

“What if they do,” Dean said.

_ Dean. _

“I’m dead,” Dean said. “If they’re after me, I don’t stand a chance. I’m already dead.”

_ You don’t look dead. _

“I’m as good as.”

_ For being dead, you look like a guy who could run pretty far, _Sam said.

Dean thought about that. He could try to get out of the city, maybe. Try to get to Coastal, where they didn’t have Angels and nexes, didn’t have any of this. He could run. Forget the city. Forget the Underlight, forget the Up. 

Forget Castiel.

“I could get away,” Dean said softly. “There’re Angels at the city walls but I might make it through.”

_ You could. _

“But this is home,” Dean said. “The people here…”

_ Can’t help them if you’re dead. _

The voice was starting to sound more like Dean and less like Sam - but it was still Sam’s face that Dean could see in his mind’s eye. He couldn’t just stand here and wait to be caught. He couldn’t give up. He had to get out of the city, get away. He gritted his teeth, and nodded to himself.

And he was about to turn away, when he saw something change. He frowned, and squinted out over the city.

The spire of Heaven - the image of Naomi. It was gone. Dean felt horror flood him, even as he stood stock still, his expression unchanging. In Naomi’s place was another picture, another face. The lettering underneath spelled out _ Danger - Do Not Approach - Call for Help if Seen. _

The face was Dean’s own.

Dean swore viciously.

If the picture was there on the spire, it would be being replicated across every screen in the city. Dean had seen it before, he knew what this was. He knew what they called it. 

Manhunt. 

They never lasted long. Hours, at the most. Everyone in the Up always enjoyed a manhunt, because it gave them something to watch. This one would cause even more of a stir - it was one of their own. All Dean’s friends from the parties in the Up, they’d be clutching their necklaces in distress and gleefully calling each other to pick over the details, ask what everyone knew, what they’d suspected, what they’d always just _ known _deep down…

There was no way out of the city now. If he went to any of the borders, the Angel guards would have him.

No Coastal. No Sam.

Dean just wanted to hear his voice. Sam would know what to do, what to say.

“I can’t get out,” Dean said.

_ No, _ Sam replied. _ You can’t. _

“I’m dead,” Dean said. And meant it more than last time.

_ Not yet. _

Dean shook his head. The Sam in his mind was level-headed, steady-eyed. Strong, like Sam always was when things looked completely hopeless.

“I’m just one guy,” Dean said. “And they’re a whole city.”

_ They aren’t the city. _

“They’re everywhere, Sammy. There’s nowhere for me to hide.”

Dean said the words to thin air. The breeze caught and tugged at them, pulling them away amongst the trees. Noises could hide in there, Dean thought, invisible. But he was solid and human and if he tried to hide here, or downstairs in the apartment, or anywhere, he would be found. In minutes, rather than hours.

_ So don’t hide. _

Dean swallowed hard.

_ For being dead, _ Sam said, _ you look like a guy who could do a lot of damage. _

The grass rustled and swayed around Dean’s feet. Behind him, the trees sighed. And Dean turned his eyes towards Heaven.

_ Castiel _

Castiel rode the elevator down to the ground floor. 

As he went, he tapped at the elevator’s glowing display, summoning a side-pod that pulled up alongside the elevator itself, matching its speed. A hatch to the side-pod hummed elegantly open, and Castiel reached inside to retrieve his suit. He’d found storing it in the elevator system to be a far safer way to do it than trying to keep it hidden in his apartments, where party-goers were often all too curious.

It did mean that he had to change in the elevator. No one could see him, even though he could see out - the elevators had one-way glass, or at least the ones that went all the way to the Up certainly did. No, no one could see him - but it wasn’t so much the issue of privacy as just the odd feeling of undressing somewhere outside his own rooms.

There wasn’t any choice about it, though. Castiel pulled off his clothes. The Angel uniform was easiest to put on all at once, so for a few moments Castiel was completely undressed, except his underwear, in the elevator. His skin rose up in goosebumps. He felt small and strangely silly, all arms and legs. His anger, his plan, his determination, all of it seemed very, very frail.

With the Angel suit on, it was better. He felt stronger. Not just skin and bone, but a force to be reckoned with.

How to get to Heaven was the first thing. He couldn’t use his Wings, not without his nex - it was needed, before a Flight, to be able to access the system and place the landing. No, he’d have to take the route in through the Underlight. The sign of the star. The one that had chased him in his dreams, in his quiet moments.

As he descended, Castiel watched the world darken. He hadn’t ridden on the elevator for a long time, and he’d forgotten the way that the city slowly swallowed you down, down, down into her stomach. The contrast was worse this way than with Wings. When Castiel Winged here, he winked out of existence in the Up, and appeared moments later in the Underlight. The two places felt like faraway fragments. On the elevator, Castiel had to watch the lights fade, the cracks start to show on the buildings. It was all one city, all one place. 

Not fragmented. Not faraway. Not a problem that could be set aside, not a place that stopped existing when Castiel wasn’t around to police it. The Underlight and its inhabitants were always there, always hurting, always losing at a game they’d never wanted to play.

Castiel took a moment to check himself over, make sure he was as well-armoured as he possibly could be. He had his eye-tech, so he’d be able to see in the dark. His suit should deflect the worst of any blows sent his way. He had no nex, so they couldn’t reach his mind.

For a second, he could almost convince himself that he stood a chance.

A chance at what, though? What did he want? The elevator hummed to a halt and Castiel stepped out into the Underlight. The alleyway was gloomy and quiet, just as Castiel knew to expect. He took a moment to find his bearings, and then started to walk. No more patrolling pace, though, no more calm regularity. Now he hurried, his blood starting to pound again.

What did he want - he wanted answers. He wanted to know one single good reason why Dean Winchester had been left on the streets of the Underlight to die. But he knew in his bones that there couldn’t be one. No line of thought, no excuse, could ever be enough to justify what the Angels had done to Dean.

He wasn’t far from the sign of the star already. Castiel could feel his stomach start to roil with nerves. One man, against the entirety of the organisation. An organisation that, he knew all too well, had the power to make him completely disappear. And he was really going to walk in there, and demand answers to questions he knew they didn’t want asked? He’d told them that he was coming. They’d be expecting him. This was strategically nightmarish. They were going to destroy him.

At the entrance to the alley, Castiel stopped. For a moment, he hesitated.

His gaze lingered on the sign of the star, over the door at the end of the alley. He took in the musty darkness, the hiss of smoke, the uneven patch of colour on the greyish floor -

Castiel felt his muscles flood with cold. His teeth gritted. There, on the ground, was red. A dried spread of redness. Blood.

Dean’s blood. This was where they’d left him. This was the place. They’d thrown him out of the door, here, and expected him to die. In pain. Losing his life, going into the unknown, bleeding and terrified, completely alone.

There was no space left in Castiel for fear. His anger was all-encompassing.

He drew out his rune-blade, and walked towards the sign of the star.


	8. Chapter 8

_ Dean _

Dean took the stairs back down to Castiel’s apartment in a kind of numb haze. He was moving quickly, but the world seemed to be going past him in slow-motion. He kept seeing pictures of his own face, up on the side of Heaven, flashing through his mind.

He stumbled back into Castiel’s room. This was the first place they would look for him. He needed to get out, and fast. First, though, his suit. He searched for it, ripping apart Castiel’s room without mercy or care. Sheets were torn off the bed, clothes wrenched out of the closet. Finally, under the bed, Dean saw a corner of green material and fell to his knees. He tugged on the corner - a wash of relief, quickly smothered by the feelingless nothing his brain had latched onto to get through each passing second.

Dean fumbled with the suit. His hands were too big, too clumsy. 

He pulled it on haphazardly, remembering too late that it was still damaged - he ran his hand over the gash over the stomach, and over his still-healing wound underneath. No time to fix it. Not even time to worry about it.

He paused beside the bedroom door, listening. He heard nothing - not the clink of weaponry nor the hiss of lowered voices. Tentatively, he pushed open the door. His eyes were wide. He could feel that he wasn't as sharp as he needed to be, the ground still feeling as though it were rocking under his feet.

Castiel. An Angel. All this time, Castiel had been playing him.

In the hall outside, Dean paused. On the floor, he saw a curled up figure. He stopped, glancing around. Trap? But when the figure stirred, her red hair falling over her face unprettily, she looked genuinely wrecked.

“Anna,” Dean said, and Anna jerked her head up to look at him. Immediately, her fingers went up to her nex, which had lights flickering along its metal plate. “No, no, wait -”

Anna tapped the nex, and Dean saw it turn off.

He went still.

“I -” Anna tried to speak, broke off, and retched. When she looked at Dean, her eyes were cloudy and confused.

“Anna?”

“Wh-what - is - happening to me,” Anna ground out.

“I don't know, I - look, I've gotta - I've gotta leave. I've gotta get out of here. Is there another way out, apart from the front door?”

“Way out?” Anna still looked mazed, trying to sit up properly. Dean glanced around himself, buzzing. Time, time, there wasn't enough time. But he couldn't leave her like this, and if she knew a way out that wasn't the front door of the place the Angels knew he'd been last…

He took a step back, and felt something spin away from his foot. Dean turned around, reaching for his Colt, ready to go down fighting - 

And saw only a sliver of metal on the carpet. He hesitated, and then stooped to pick it up.

He turned it over in his hand. Just a metal plate, though part of it looked as though it could move, or light up, or something. The shape was somehow incredibly familiar but also strange - he thought he should know instantly what it was, yet somehow he couldn’t place it.

“Castiel,” Anna said, and when Dean glanced over at her, he saw she was staring at the metal plate, too.

“This is his?”

Anna nodded.

“He took it off. I don't know how. It's got a part that should go into your brain. It shouldn't be safe to remove it if it doesn't want to be removed. But he did it.”

When Dean looked blank, she pointed to the side of her own head, where the metal plate was sitting dead and inoperative.

“His nex?” Dean said, and almost dropped it. “Holy shit. What's he playing at?”

“He was angry. About what happened to you. He was going to the organisation. But they - through my nex, they made me - I said some things that were…”

Anna's face was hardening. Dean was caught, half wanting to leave and half needing to understand what had happened with Castiel, with the Angels. If Castiel had done something as serious as removing his own nex, then maybe the Angels would be distracted. Maybe that was why they weren't already here.

The fact that Anna knew all this, of course, meant that she had to be an Angel, too. There was no other way. He had to get out, before she figured out that Dean was a wanted man.

“Anna,” Dean said, “is there any other way out of this apartment. Please.”

Anna seemed to truly notice who she was talking to for the first time. She blinked and stared up at him, at the way he was moving from foot to foot, the tenseness he had to be radiating.

“What's wrong?” she said. And then her gaze went unfocused, as the lights on her nex lit up again. “No!” she said, and tapped it hurriedly, turning it off. 

In the brief moment it had been live, however, it seemed to have told her something. Anna now looked over at him with horrified eyes. 

“Manhunt,” she said.

Dean nodded. He didn't know what else to do. If she was going to turn him in, he should already be running.

Anna tapped her nex.

“Connect to the organisation,” she snapped. Dean dropped Castiel’s nex and started towards her, not knowing what he was going to do when he reached her. “Hello? This is Anna Milton. Calling with information. Dean Winchester was here, but he left.”

Dean, who had the butt of his Colt ready to deal her a sharp blow on the head, came to a stop.

“He didn't take the elevator. He ran up the stairs to the roof. He was in…” Anna looked Dean over. “Some kind of suit. Green. Dark green. I think he was going to try to rappel down the side of the building to another balcony. That's all I have for you. Thank you.” Anna tapped her nex, and shut it off.

She breathed out, long and shaky.

“Anna,” Dean said, at a loss. “Why…?”

“Because,” she said, “those bastards just turned my brain into a sponge. You need to move,” she said, getting to her feet. She was still ungainly, but she was recovering some of her usual aloof attitude. “But first you need to get out of that suit. I have a spare one of Castiel's. You can wear that. Do you know where you're going?”

“I…” Dean struggled for words. Anna had never been anything but friendly enough at parties, and otherwise coolly dismissive of him. And she was an Angel. But she'd just defied the entire organisation, and bought him some time.

“You won't make it out of the city,” Anna said. “I'm sorry. This is a question of when, not if, they catch you. You've got some time to contact anyone you might want to say goodbye to, or…”

Dean thought of Sam, briefly. He could sit and try to call, over and over. But the phone hadn’t worked, and there was no guarantee Sam would pick up, and - and Dean could think of some things to do with what time he had left that Sam might approve of more than trying to make a phone call.

“I'm going to Heaven,” Dean said.

Anna's expression didn't change, except the skin around her eyes went tight and her jaw clenched.

“It's impossible,” she said.

“I know the way.”

“It doesn't matter. You won't last half a second.”

“Then I'll do under half a second of damage to those assholes,” Dean said.

Anna stared at him for a long, long moment. She looked into his eyes as though trying to see something in them that she needed - some courage, some assurance of his steeliness. 

She must have found it, because she nodded. Curtly, just once. She walked away from the door to Castiel's room and into one nextdoor down the hall - Anna's own room, Dean thought it had to be, though the only sign that anyone lived in it was the slightly rumpled bedcovers. She hurried over to a cupboard. The lights on her nex flashed again, and she stabbed it off.

“No one,” Anna said, “controls my head for me.”

“Didn't you use it all this time? The nex?” Dean said, as she tore a blue and black suit out of the cupboard. Anna's eyes were dark when she turned back to him and thrust the suit towards him.

“I chose to,” she said grimly. “Or I thought I did.”

She faced the wall, and Dean stripped. He was still burning with that energy, natural adrenaline thudding through him. The Angel suit felt strange and stiff, never worn before by the feel of it. It was secure, though. Not ripped anywhere. He was better off in this than his own suit. And it might give him a few extra seconds, if the Angels couldn't immediately identify Dean by his clothing.

When he had the suit on, he looked down at himself and felt a stab of - something he couldn't put a name to. Here he was, just a person dressed up like an Angel. And that was what they all were. All of them were people, just skin and bone, legs and arms, under the suit. Just like every building had a foundation and Heaven didn't float above, untouchable. The people in the suits weren't superhumans, either. They were just people. And what Dean was thinking of doing… he was going to hurt some of them.

He reached down to his old suit, and retrieved his Colt. He hefted its familiar weight, and then tucked it into the Angel uniform's hip holster.

Never fired it in the Underlight. But he could fire it in the Up. He could fire it at an Angel. 

“You can take the elevator,” Anna said. “They're looking for you on the side of the building.”

Dean nodded. She was still an Angel and there was a part of him that begrudged it, but he said,

“Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome. Just… take down as many of them as you can, would you?”

“You could come too,” Dean said. Anna shook her head.

“I’m more useful out here than in a fight. I never had training in physical combat but intel is something I have handled. I learned to pass the nex’s lie detector years ago. I can keep feeding them false information from out here. Buy you more time.”

Dean considered her - the way her jaw was set, the look in her eyes.

“You're not like the others,” he said.

“The other Angels?” Anna replied. She came over to him and straightened his suit on his shoulders, hard and militaristic, one soldier to another. “Maybe. Maybe not. I'm not the only one fighting this.” She pointed to her nex.

Castiel. The name went unspoken between them. Castiel, who had ripped his nex out of his head, and somehow survived the experience. Dean didn't know what to think about it. Anna had said something about Castiel going to Heaven, angry about what had happened to Dean. What did that mean?

One of Dean's hands went to the Colt on his hip. If Dean saw Castiel in Heaven, would he save him or shoot him?

He wanted to hope that Castiel would be with him. That it hadn't all been a lie. That what they'd shared - the months of sharp discussion, the kiss, the night Castiel had spent holding Dean's hand as he slept - that some part of it had been real. Especially that night. Dean's chest felt weighted when he thought of it. Something so simple, so difficult, as sitting alone with nothing to do but think for a whole night, hand in hand with a sleeping man. Out of sheer refusal to let him be alone.

Dean hadn't done a lot of romance. It wasn't that he found the idea horrible, but in practice it had always felt forced and kind of stupid. This, though. Dean remembered the look on Castiel's face when he'd woken up. The feel of their hands together. The quiet. 

No performance. No effort for the benefit of some unseen viewer, some made-up judging audience - just an effort for Dean, and only for him.

The thought of it felt as though it went deep, deep down, far and fast.

“I need to go,” Dean said hoarsely. Anna breathed out through her nose, and nodded. “Listen, if, uh. If you could get a message to my brother… he’s in Coastal. Name’s Sam. If you could just tell him, uh. Tell him I… I wanted… I want him to finish his studies. And, uh. And I want… him to be… I’m doing this for him.”

Dean cleared his throat and looked up for a second. Anna bit her lip, and then nodded again.

“I can do that,” she said. “Come on. Let’s get you out of here before the organisation turns up and you lose your chance to smack a few of them in the face before they get you.”

They walked together out into the hallway. Dean’s numb and heady feeling was redoubling now that he was on the point of leaving. In the hall, Anna bent down and picked up Castiel’s nex.

“Come here,” she said.

“I don’t want -”

“I can just put it like this…” She had her eyes narrowed as she adjusted the nex on the side of Dean’s head. The metal felt cold and flat against his scalp. Dean repressed a shudder. “There.” When she took her hands away, Dean could feel the nex staying in place.

“It’s not…”

“Not in your brain. Just above it.” Anna squinted at it. “It might fool a few more people into thinking you’re actually an Angel. Even just for a half-second.”

“I’ll take all the fractions of a second I can get.” Dean swallowed hard. “Thanks, Anna. For all of this.”

“If you see Castiel, tell him… tell him I’m sorry, would you?”

Dean nodded. He had no idea if it was an empty promise that he was making - depending on what Castiel did when he saw Dean, it might be more of a shoot first, apologise on behalf of mutual acquaintances later, sort of a situation. But Anna looked pale and worried, and Dean wanted to give her something to hold on to.

She wished him luck as he walked away. Dean wished he could believe he was taking any with him. It felt as though his luck had run out years ago, if he’d ever had it at all.

_ Castiel _

Castiel pushed open the door under the sign of the star.

It didn’t creak, or hum, or do any of the things that doors in the Underlight tended to do when pushed. Instead, it slid open noiselessly.

Beyond, Castiel saw a room that was full of bright light. Almost too bright. His eye-tech was working hard, trying to give him a decent picture of the room beyond simply white, white light, burning white light. He thought he could make out an elevator shaft, and maybe a balcony up above with some very still figures standing on it.

He stepped inside. Rune-blade raised.

“Come down,” he said. “Come down here. I know what you’ve done. I  _ know.  _ And I want to know _ why.” _

His voice echoed in the room. He heard the door close behind him. He kept his eyes narrowed, trying to squint through the glare.

“Welcome home, Angel 401,” said a calm voice. Castiel swung around, rune-blade still raised, but no one was behind him. No one was near him. How was it possible? He wasn’t hearing the voice through his nex, it wasn’t there anymore.

“Where are you?” Castiel demanded roughly.

“This is an unexpected surprise,” the voice said, still sounding unruffled.

“There aren’t many other kinds of surprise,” Castiel replied. He was turning on the spot, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. He heard a faint hum of amusement.

“You’ve got your rune-blade up. Set it down, Angel 401.”

“My name is Castiel,” Castiel said.

“401, you are being disobedient.”

“I want answers,” Castiel hissed. “I want to know. I want to understand.”

“Oh, 401.” Castiel heard the soft tread of footsteps behind him and whipped around. There before him, he saw a face that he knew. A face he knew well. Pale skin, reddish-brown hair, light blue eyes, and a quiet, confident smile. Castiel felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Naomi. It was the leader of the Angels herself, standing in front of Castiel in a simple unadorned grey suit.

“Naomi,” Castiel said, the word coming out hoarse.

“Hello, 401. You have been causing us trouble, haven’t you? Again.”

“Again?”

“I’ve already had to bring you in for bad behaviour, 401. More than once. We wiped that and sent you out on your way.” Castiel swallowed hard. The faint memory of the sign of the star - the blurry fear in his mind.

“What did you do to me?” he said.

“We only corrected your bad behaviour. You know the rules. Every Angel does. If you break them, there has to be a consequence. You must see that, 401.”

“What about Dean?” Castiel said. “Was what happened to him just a ‘consequence’ too?”

“I wouldn’t try to do air quotes with a rune-blade in one hand,” Naomi said, a maternal reprimand. She sounded so reasonable. “401, we did what we had to with Mr Winchester. It was a shame. But you know that the organisation cannot directly kill anyone, it’s in our code. Winchester was a danger to the organisation and to others in the Up. His mental state was clearly devolving, and since he didn’t have a nex, we had no way of knowing how close he was to causing real harm to an innocent. He needed to be removed. When he was hurt, I chose to let nature take its course with him. A decision I did not take lightly.” 

“Let nature take its course,” Castiel said, through gritted teeth.

Naomi put her head on one side. 

“401, I know that faith hasn’t always been easy for you. As little as I understand that, I do admire it about you. You have strength of spirit. You find yourself a cause and you hold onto it, even when it means defying those you once owed your loyalty to. I see you now have a new cause. But I must ask you to set that aside.” She held out her hand. “Come back to your family, 401. Come home.”

Castiel stared at her.

“Did that speech work on me?” he asked. “Before you wiped me the last time?”

Naomi’s concerned expression melted into something harder.

“No,” she said, and clicked her fingers. Castiel felt a sharp prick in his neck, just above the collar of his suit. He slapped his hand to touch the spot, and found himself with a hand on a dart. He pulled it out, and found himself looking down at a Still. His vision was already fogging, his limbs loosening.

“Stop,” he said, but it didn’t sound like his own voice - it was slurred, strangely choppy as his memory started to fail.

“Get him a new nex,” he heard Naomi say, as everything went dark. “Take him to his holding cell. Floor eight hundred. I want to know what caused it, this time...”


	9. Chapter 9

_ Dean _

When Dean retraced his steps to the sign of the star, he did so at a measured pace.

There was something about being in the Underlight, in a suit, that steadied him. He recognised in himself the flurry, the uncertainty, the hesitation that he’d seen in people down here - people who couldn’t get themselves out of trouble. Wide-eyed, indecisive, they’d stumble and drop things and fall and not think, because they were panicking. The moment his boots hit the ground of the Underlight, Dean took a deep breath, and felt something inside him go still.

No more panic. No more questioning himself. Make a decision, commit.

He was going to Heaven. He was going to go in, see how high in the spire he could get trying to blend in, and as soon as he was found out, he was going to take out his Colt and fire off as many rounds as he could get into as many Angel bastards as he could.

It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was something.

Dean walked through the Underlight. He had the hood of his Angel uniform up, hiding his face. Being down here, he couldn’t help expecting the Angel - his Angel, the Angel of the Underlight - to appear round a corner with a sardonic question and a tilt of his head.

Castiel. That Angel was Castiel. All this time in the Underlight, it had been Castiel who’d had his back. They’d fought well together.

Dean had kissed that Angel.

He’d  _ enjoyed  _ kissing that Angel. He’d wanted more. The Angel in question hadn’t enjoyed it so much - at least, not enough to be able to get over the fact that Dean was obviously having some unwanted emotions - but it had felt as though he’d enjoyed it, at the time, at least.

The fact that Castiel hadn’t wanted Dean to feel anything real about him, that sent a cold trickle down Dean’s spine. That felt like evidence towards the idea that Castiel had been playing him the whole time, had wanted to keep him close but not too close - interested but not welcome.

Dean didn’t want to think about that kind of evidence. He preferred to think about the things that felt as though they proved Castiel really had cared about him. The hand-holding. The moment of the kiss itself. The little strange moments of real conversation that they’d shared over the time they’d known each other. The way Castiel had taken Dean up to the roof, shown him the trees…

The Underlight was quiet and still, unnaturally so, the opposite of the rooftop park. Dean made his way to the familiar alley. He didn’t hesitate; he walked down it, heading for the sign of the star. It glowed above him as he pulled open the door - as he imagined an Angel might do, not bothering to knock, moving with assurance.

He walked inside.

The place was gently lit, unlike last time. Dean moved quickly over towards the elevator shaft at the centre of the room, not pausing to glance around him. An Angel wouldn’t gawp and stare like a tourist. An Angel would already know what this place looked like, and go straight for the elevator.

As soon as Dean called for it, the elevator arrived. It was empty.

Dean swallowed, resisted the urge to fiddle with the nex on the side of his head to check it was sitting straight, and stepped into the elevator. He didn’t know what floor the bosses would be on, but he’d decided to aim for the highest floor he could get to, figuring that’d be the easiest target - so he tapped the display and selected the top floor.

The elevator doors closed. Dean stood still in the very centre of the space, his heart pounding.

His head was full of Castiel, whether Dean would find him, what he’d see if he did. And when he wasn’t thinking about Castiel, he was thinking about Sam. Far away in Coastal, with no idea that his brother was in the most dangerous place in the whole of Central city.

He could die in here. He was almost certainly going to.

Had he lost his mind? He could have probably made it to the phone, tried to call Sam. Or he could have hidden somewhere, stayed alive for maybe several more hours. What kind of self-destructive, unhinged idea was it to give up entirely on trying to live and walk right into the furious crawling hive of the Angels?

Dean felt an edge of that panicked energy seep back in, and pushed it back and away. He’d made his choice. He was here, in the elevator. He had to commit to it. No indecision, no doubt.

He might die, he might not. That was out of his control. All he could do was get as far as he could, and damage as much as he could, before he was stopped - one way or another.

The elevator slowed. Dean glanced at the display, his teeth clenching when he saw that he was nowhere near the top of the building. Someone else must have called the elevator, and it was stopping for them.

The doors opened. On the other side of them was an Angel. They were wearing a full suit, and their hood was up. They came and stood silently next to Dean, and the doors closed behind them. The elevator started to move again.

Dean’s heartbeat was steady. He had the Angel in his peripheral vision and at the slightest movement, he was ready to go for his Colt. This - the tension, the moment of waiting before action - this was what the Underlight had taught him to understand. Quick decisions, no time to pause and overthink.

The silence drew out. The Angel didn’t move.

Eventually, though, they did speak.

“You’re Angel 401?” they said.

Dean didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” he replied blandly.

“Aren’t you getting out on floor eight hundred?” The Angel’s voice sounded angled, mistrustful. Dean cleared his throat. He’d rather not shoot this Angel. The shot would draw attention, and then this would be as far as he got. Instead, he nodded his hooded head.

“Yes,” he said again. “Could you please select that floor for me.”

He tried to make his voice sound as formal and stilted as Castiel’s, hoping to avoid raising the Angel’s suspicions any higher.

The Angel nodded, and selected the floor. It wasn’t far from the top at all, Dean noticed on the display - it had to be only fifty floor down from the top of the spire, or less. 

The Angel beside Dean said,

“Angel 401 is on his way to floor eight hundred.”

They had to be saying that into their nex, Dean thought. Why would they need to do that? Was it normal to report on the whereabouts of different Angels in the Angel building? Was he supposed to have identified this Angel and reported on their location, too? Had he already blown his cover by not doing that?

He shrugged it off. The Angel wasn’t making any kind of move against him. And the elevator slowed, as they reached floor eight hundred.

When the doors opened, this time, there were two Angels on the other side. Hoods up. Dean’s hand itched to rest on the grip of his Colt, but he stilled it. No signs of aggression until it was absolutely necessary.

“Angel 401,” said the first Angel. “You’re needed in the holding cells.”

“The cells?” Dean asked.

Neither Angel answered.

Dean had fractions of a second to make a choice. He could shoot, now, or hold off.

“I’ll go there immediately,” he said. With luck, the Angels would let him be, and he’d be able to return to the elevator as soon as they were out of sight -

“We shall accompany you,” said the second Angel.

Dean gritted his teeth.

“Super,” he said, and then thought perhaps that wasn’t a particularly Angelic thing to say - but none of the Angels around him were immediately reaching for weapons, so maybe it wasn’t completely wrong. Dean walked out of the elevator, and the two Angels turned to lead him forward. The elevator doors closed behind him.

The eight hundredth floor of the spire of Heaven was sparse and clean. The walls were a corporate grey, the floor uncarpeted. There were no windows along the corridor.

As he walked, Dean stared at the backs of the two Angels. He could shoot them, right now. Their suits were built to stave off rune-blades and darts and other modern weapons, not something as old-fashioned and rare as an actual gun. It was the reason Dean carried it. The bullets would tear through the material and into skin and bone, into the people underneath those hoods.

He could do it. He probably should. Holding cells sounded like prison, like they were leading him to being locked up. He couldn’t do damage from there, only out here.

Even still, he stayed his hand. He’d know at the last moment if they were trying to shut him away, and then he could make his move. If he could avoid it, Dean wanted to not shoot them. Save his bullets for the higher-ups.

“Just in here,” said one of them, and pushed open a door. “After you.”

That was all wrong. Dean was reaching for his Colt, ready to take these two out and go on the run back to the elevator - and then he caught sight of something, through the door.

A chair. Padded, comfortable-looking, reclined, like a dentist’s chair. And in the chair, there was a figure who seemed to be asleep.

Castiel.

Dean found himself moving forwards before he’d made the conscious decision to do so. The room was as plain as the corridor, still without windows and now also without so many lights - a miserable greyish gloom. Footsteps quick on the metal floor, Dean went to Castiel’s side.

“Castiel?” he said. Castiel’s face was smooth and relaxed. He was breathing slowly, and he didn’t respond to Dean’s voice.

Dean heard the door close behind him, and turned back to look at it, hissing in a breath through his teeth. That was bad. That was  _ really  _ bad. They’d led him here, to a room with Castiel, and shut him in. Did they still think he was an Angel? Was this some kind of test? 

He turned back to Castiel, and let out a sharp noise of surprise, and stepped backwards.

Castiel’s eyes were open.

“Castiel,” Dean said. “Hey - look - uh, we need to get out of here. Do you know how to -”

Castiel sat up. There was something strange - almost robotic - in the way that he did so. Dean stared at him for a couple of seconds. He had his hand on the grip of his Colt, now.

“Castiel,” Dean said again, less certainly.

Now, Castiel turned his head towards Dean. On the side of his head, Dean saw a new metal plate, shining silver and sparkling across its length with lights. His blood chilled. The distant look in Castiel’s eyes, the odd way he was moving - he was in the grip of his nex.

“Castiel,” Dean said, holding up the hand that wasn’t on the Colt. “Castiel, wait -”

Castiel moved. With a speed and strength that Dean wouldn’t have thought possible, he was off the chair and across the space between them. Dean managed to unholster his gun before the hand holding it received a swift blow, and the Colt went skittering away across the floor. The next of Castiel’s punches landed on Dean’s gut, right in the place where his skin was still knitting together, trying to heal. He doubled over, the Angel suit not enough to ease the pain - and how was that possible? How hard was Castiel hitting him, if Dean could feel it through a suit like this?

The question was answered as soon as it passed through Dean’s mind. Castiel’s blows were quick and efficient, landing on the back of Dean’s neck and then straight to his face under the hood.

Left eye.

Mouth.

Throat.

Dean choked, dropping to the floor.

“Cas-” he tried, and then Castiel was hauling him up by the neck of his suit, raising his fist for another blow. On his knees, Dean reached up, pulling back his own hood. He could feel blood dripping down his chin. His skin had split under the force of the punch to his mouth. “Cas, it’s me - it’s me -”

Castiel hit him on the right eye.

Dean grabbed for Castiel’s sleeve, the other hand coming up, palm flat, in a half-surrender. His mind was a blur of panic. The Colt was too far away to reach. He had nothing. Castiel’s blows were falling too fast for Dean to try to fight back, and even if he could have - even if he could -

“Cas,” he said. “It’s me - it’s  _ me _ -”

Castiel’s hand was raised for another blow. Dean winced, waiting for it to fall. Was this how it ended? Was this how he was going to go? Under the same hand that had held his, through the night? He wanted to close his eyes, but Castiel was looking down at him. Somewhere in there, Dean knew, was the person under the nex. Somewhere in that mind, Castiel - the real Castiel - was watching. And if they were having to use the nex to force him to do this, it meant that Castiel himself didn’t want this.

“Cas,” Dean said, “it’s okay. It’s okay.”  _ It’s okay, _ he wanted to say.  _ I know this isn’t you _ .  _ I know. _

There was a moment of stillness. The lights on Castiel’s nex flashed furiously.

“Cas,” Dean said again. The look in Castiel’s eyes had shifted, ever so slightly. There was a little tilt to his head. “Cas, it’s Dean. It’s me. Remember?”

Castiel didn’t move. His fist still gripped the neck of Dean’s suit, Dean’s hand still holding onto his forearm. They were poised for a second, two seconds, three…

The conflict on Castiel’s face became deeper, clearer.

“Dean,” he said. His hold slackened, just a fraction.

“Cas,” Dean said. “Yeah, it’s me. It’s me. Please, don’t - don’t do this -”

The nex on the side of Castiel’s head was twinkling viciously, battling against Castiel’s frown, his loosening hand. Castiel’s blue eyes looked down at Dean, flickering over the blood on his face, the bruises that had to be rising.

He tightened his fist again, drew his hand back.

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice breaking on the word. “Cas, I know you’re in there. C’mon, Cas.” 

Dean wasn’t going to make it out of this building. He’d known that coming in, but now he understood it. The Angels had brought him into this room to be killed by Castiel. They knew who he was. The only chance that Dean stood of hurting them at all before he was taken out - it lay in the clenched fists of the Angel standing over him.

The Angel that Dean knew. The Angel of the Underlight.

“You gotta fight it,” Dean said. He moved his grip on Castiel’s arm, tightened it. Trying to make the skin beneath the suit feel him. “Cas, you gotta fight it. We need to get out of here, I need - I need you. C’mon, you gotta...”

Castiel let go of him.

Dean almost fell, but caught himself. His ears were ringing with the force of the blows that Castiel had landed on him.

“I won’t,” Castiel said, in a low voice.

“Castiel?”

“I won’t,” Castiel said again. “Get off me - get  _ off  _ \- get out of my head -”

With a sharp snap, the door behind Dean opened. Dean’s head whipped around, and his vision briefly swerved in and out of blurriness. Into the room walked three suited and hooded Angels, and in front of them, someone in a simpler business suit. Pale grey.

“Nao-Naomi?” Dean said. He chanced a glance to his left. The Colt was far out of reach.

“Make a note,” Naomi said to the one Angels, while the other two moved over to Dean and Castiel. Dean made an attempt to crawl backwards, get away, towards his gun - but the Angel was fast, and their hands were strong. They made short work of pinning Dean’s arms behind his back, and pulling him to his feet. “I want it on record. Some kind of emotion is blocking the nex. Or changing it. I want information on that last thing we saw, that  _ genesis mode.” _

“Yes, Naomi.”

“Shame,” Naomi said, coming over to Dean and looking him up and down. “I did want Castiel to kill you. You’re getting to be a thorn in my side, Mr Winchester. Or should I call you Hunter?”

Dean spat at her.

She closed her eyes, and wiped at her cheek.

When she looked at Dean again, he thought he saw a measure of anger behind the facade of calm.

“The city of Central is founded on respect,” she said. “I expect you to remember that from now on.”

“Respect,” Dean bit out, and then laughed. “Respect? This city is founded on misery. This city is founded on the people you forgot. You want to talk about respect? How about you show some respect for the people you’re supposed to defend?” He glanced over towards Castiel, who was looking down at the floor, his arms pinned just as Dean’s were.

“Fascinating,” Naomi said. “Your life hangs in the balance, and you choose to irk me.”

“Irk you?” Dean could feel his lip curling in anger. “I’m not trying to - I’m - this isn’t about  _ you _ . This is about the city -”

“We are the city,” Naomi said, her tone razor-sharp. “You would tear her down. I won’t let you, Mr Winchester. I will not let you. Oh… that’s a pretty little trinket you’re wearing. 401’s old nex, isn’t it? But not connected? I think perhaps we need to fix that.”

She reached out. Dean struggled against the hands that pinned him - out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see Castiel twisting against his captor, too, but the Angels were too strong, and Naomi was right in close, and the lights on her nex were flashing, and then she reached out and touched the metal plate on the side of Dean’s head.

He felt it pull tight to his scalp, and then a prick through his skin, like a bee sting.

“There,” Naomi said. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? It kills the pain immediately. Isn’t that clever?”

Dean stopped struggling.

Something was wrong. Something in his mind. Something that hadn’t been there before.

A voice - the voice of his own thoughts - said to him,

_ Here to help. _

_ Castiel _

Castiel stopped struggling against the Angel holding back his arms. He watched as Dean’s eyes widened - as he heard the voice in his head for the first time, Castiel knew.

He wanted to throw himself to the floor. He wanted to push back these Angels, all the Angels, the oppressive weight of this whole building, in one movement of his hands. He wanted to scream. Dean - Dean had a nex, now. And there was nothing that Castiel could do to stop his mind from changing, from becoming something new. Something not his own. 

The mind that Castiel had, over the course of months, come to prefer to any other mind in the world. It was changing. It was being taken away.

The new nex on Castiel’s own head was still humming. For a moment, in the blur and panic and strangeness of attacking Dean - through the anger and horror that the nex had been feeding him - Castiel thought he’d heard something change, just as it had back in his apartment. He thought he’d heard the nex’s voice go deeper. He thought he’d heard it say something about a genesis mode, just as Naomi had said when she came in the room. But as soon as Naomi had walked in, the nex had been reset. Now, it said,

_ Would you like to soothe unwanted emotions? _

“No,” Castiel said out loud.

Naomi turned to him. She looked at him with her head on one side, like a mother contemplating her recalcitrant child. She shook her head.

“You were supposed to kill him, 401,” she said.

“No,” Castiel said again. Thoughts weren’t moving clearly for him, but flat refusal seemed to come easily.

“Yes, you were. And now I’m going to have to figure out what to do with you. Another mind-wipe, I think. Total. I don’t want you remembering any of this. Especially not Mr Winchester, here.”

“Kill me,” Castiel said. “Kill me instead.” Naomi sighed.

“I’m not evil, 401,” she said. “I don’t kill people. The Angels don’t kill, you know that. It’s a rule. I just… set things up, and then let nature take its course.” She was smiling serenely. “But you… you’ve been standing in nature’s way, haven’t you? Just since your last wipe, you stopped what was happening to that lawyer Raphael down in the Underlight. She’s been undermining me for years, you know. I thought I had her when I started sending her down there when she left Heaven. I thought someone was bound to attack her at some point. And then  _ you _ had to save her. Yes, I know it was you. I know how many times you’ve Winged down to the Underlight. I know all about it, Castiel. I was happy to let you play policeman, but this… this is too far.”

Castiel didn’t know what to say. He stared at Naomi, horrified. How many pieces in his life had she been moving around? How many times had she wiped him clean and tried to start again? How many of his memories were truly his own, and how many had she manipulated, manufactured, to make him behave the way she wanted? 

What was real?

He looked across the room to Dean. Dean’s jaw was locked. His eyes were glazed. He was battling something, in a place Castiel couldn’t see. But when Castiel looked to him, Dean turned his head. For a second, there was a hint of clarity in his eyes - and then it grew stronger.

Castiel tilted his head backwards, ever so slightly.

Dean’s lips went tight. He’d understood.

“- just doing what needs to be done,” Naomi was saying. Castiel hadn’t even noticed her starting to speak again. “That’s what I want you to understand, 401. I’m doing this for the city. To keep things running as they should.”

“Nothing about this is as it should be,” Castiel said. “I want to believe that, somewhere inside you, you know that. I think that’s why you’re still here, trying to justify yourself to me. Because you know what you’ve done is unjustifiable.”

Naomi smiled. Castiel searched her eyes, and saw no flicker of doubt. He wondered if it was her nex, soothing her, or if this was Naomi herself.

“That’s enough, I think,” she said. She turned her attention to the Angels. “Stay with them for now. I’m going back to Spire-top. I need to speak to the nex development team. There are some bugs in our system, clearly. I don’t want them left alone.”

She looked at Castiel once more, and seemed to want to say something, before she nodded sharply and walked away. The door closed behind her.

_ “Now,”  _ Castiel said. He slammed his head backwards, as hard as he could. He felt it connect with something inside the suited Angel’s hood, heard something crunch under the blow. The Angel grunted in pain and shock, and Castiel stamped hard on their foot, and then threw his head backward again. The Angel’s grip on his arms went loose, and Castiel tore his hands away, raised them, turned, and punched the Angel, hard, on the temple.

They went down, noiselessly.

Castiel turned to see Dean standing over the body of a similarly fallen Angel. He was holding his Colt, and pointing it at the Angel’s head. His chest was heaving. Castiel didn’t say anything, didn’t interrupt. If Dean wanted to shoot the Angel, that was his choice.

After a moment, Dean lowered the gun.

_ Would you like to soothe - _

“No,” Castiel said.

“What,” Dean said, “you think I should shoot?”

His expression still looked clouded. The nex was flashing on the side of his head, light running up and down. Castiel walked over, reached out, and tapped it. It wouldn’t turn off.

“Can you hear it?” Castiel asked.

Dean nodded.

“Can you fight it?”

Dean nodded again.

“Good.”

“It’s easier,” Dean said. “It’s easier when you’re here.”

“It’s good that I’m here, then,” Castiel said. He went back, bent down, and searched the body of the Angel he’d knocked out. Just a rune-blade, nothing more useful. Still, it was something. Castiel picked it up, turned, and tossed it to Dean, who caught it easily.

“We have to go after her,” Dean said.

_ We don’t have to,  _ Castiel thought.  _ We could leave. We could hide. We could run - _

With the thoughts came a sense of trickling peace, shining contentment. Castiel ground his teeth together and pushed the ideas away. The nex was pernicious, determined.

“We’re going after her,” he said. “Come on. The elevator is no good, they’ll be watching. But there’s a staircase. They brought me up a staircase, up the back, because they didn’t want anyone to see me. They thought I was out cold, but I wasn’t, not completely.”

Dean was pushing his fingers against his nex, trying to find a way to turn it off. Castiel shook his head.

“It’s no good.”

Dean’s fingers started clawing at the plate, now.

“We don’t have time, Dean.”

Dean looked up at him, his gaze fierce.

“It’s fine for you,” he said. “You’re used to having something messing your brain up. You agreed to this. I don’t - want -” He scrabbled at the nex. Castiel walked over, and took his wrist.

“We don’t have time,” he said. “Every second, Naomi is getting further away. We need to follow her. At a distance, so she can’t start to put more pressure on our nexes again…”

“This is stupid,” Dean growled. “This is ridiculous. We can’t fight her while we’re wearing these -”

“We can,” Castiel snapped. “If you’re here, I can break through her hold.”

Dean stared at Castiel for a long moment. Castiel was aware, suddenly, of how close they were standing, of his own hand on Dean’s wrist. Dean wrenched himself out of Castiel’s grip.

“Fine,” he said. “But I’m taking lead.”

It sounded so much like something that the Hunter would say in the Underlight that Castiel almost found himself smiling.

“Let’s go,” he said.


	10. Chapter 10

_ Dean _

When Dean followed Castiel, it was in a kind of haze. When they met an Angel and Dean struck at them with the rune-blade in his hand, it was as though someone else was doing it - he was out of his own body, far above it again, lost. His mind was fighting him. His mind kept saying,

_ Would you like to soothe unwanted emotions? _

And,

_ Here to help. _

And,

_ I should run. I should run. I should run. _

Dean fought. He fought the Angels. He fought his mind. And both of those things were easier when he fought with Castiel, too.

“You were an Angel,” Dean growled at him, as he used the rune-blade to carve into an Angel’s neck. The runes swirled on the blade, healing the would just a little as it went, leaving a vicious but non-fatal cut. “This whole time, you were an Angel.”

Together, they pushed through the door that Castiel said led to the stairs. Sure enough, steps unfurled, both upward and down - impossibly far in both directions.

“You were the Hunter,” Castiel pointed out, flattening another Angel against a wall as they rushed towards the pair of them. Dean dealt them a sharp stab with the rune-blade, and they went down.

“Oh,” Dean said, “yeah, being a vigilante trying to clean the streets of the Underlight is definitely as bad as being part of an evil mega-organisation.”

“I was a vigilante too,” Castiel hissed. They ran together up the stairs.

“You were an Angel,” Dean insisted. “You were dressed as an Angel.”

“Have you looked at yourself, lately?”

Dean glanced down, remembered that he was still wearing the Angel suit, and fell silent. As soon as he did, the nex said,

_ I should run. I should run. I should give up and ru- _

“Yeah,” Dean said hurriedly. “But I didn’t pretend to like you.”

“I never pretended anything,” Castiel retorted. “At least I actually cared.”

“Right, right,” Dean said. “Real caring when you told me to leave your room ‘cause you didn’t want me getting too attached. Which I wasn’t doing, by the way.” It wasn’t exactly true, but that didn’t feel as though it mattered. Another Angel was coming down the stairs, looking confused by the sound of their loud voices. Dean didn’t hesitate, and Castiel by his side didn’t slow down, either. They grabbed the Angel by their boots and pulled, sending them sprawling down the stairway. The two of them rounded a corner and ran on, on, up.

“I told you to leave my room,” Castiel said, slightly breathlessly, “because you  _ said  _ you just wanted a one-night stand. Believe me, I know you weren’t getting attached.”

“You - you - what?”

“I know,” Castiel said, his shoulder bumping Dean’s as they ran. “I know. You’re Dean Winchester. You can’t be held down. Being with someone for longer than a night doesn’t interest you. I understand. I just didn’t want a one-night thing.”

“You didn’t?” Dean said, and now his mind was really working. Now he felt clearer. As they passed someone in a simple suit and clutching a briefcase - probably a lawyer - Dean pulled back a little so that they could squeeze past unharmed.

Castiel hadn’t wanted a one-night stand?

“No,” Castiel said. “It’s just… not what I wanted.”

“So what did you want?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel said, sounding as though he did know, and didn’t want to say.

“But -”

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t want the same thing.”

“You don’t know what I want,” Dean said.

“You did tell me you were hoping to get to know Anna better,” Castiel pointed out. He waved a hand. “I need to stop for a second.” They paused. Castiel put his hands on his knees and breathed. Dean swallowed roughly. The disembodied feeling was getting him through the worst of it, he thought. He couldn’t feel the pain in his chest or the stitch in his side as anything more than cold facts, things that he knew were happening but couldn’t connect to.

“I told you that,” Dean said, “to try to make you believe that I wasn’t getting too attached. Because I thought that was what you  _ wanted.” _

“Why,” Castiel replied, “would I want… you to sleep… with my lawyer… if I liked you?”

“I didn’t know if you liked me, did I?” Dean said angrily, and then stopped. “Wait, you like me?”

Castiel breathed out, long and hard, and then stood upright.

“Let’s go,” he said, and started running again.

“Castiel -”

“We can’t talk about this right now,” Castiel said, his tone ragged. “We’re trying to - take down - an evil mega-organisation -”

“When else are we gonna talk about it?” Dean demanded. “After they’ve killed us?”

“Fine,” Castiel snapped. “You tell me what  _ you  _ want, then.”

“I want…” Dean came up short. But as soon as he paused, the nex in his mind got louder. He shoved it away. He had to keep talking. “I don’t know,” he said. “I want something.”

“Very illuminating,” Castiel said.

“You say what you want, then,” Dean retorted.

“I want to get to the top of these stairs,” Castiel ground out. Dean managed a half-laugh. And once he’d started, he found himself laughing again, and then again. At the ridiculousness of it. The stupidity. Running up the tallest building in the city, on a doomed-to-fail mission to try to stop the most powerful person in the city, while drugged by a nex and arguing loudly with the Angel of the Underlight about who liked who more.

“Is the nex...?” Castiel demanded.

“No - no - just - this, it’s - it’s all -”

“I know,” Castiel said. “I know.”

“If we get out of this,” Dean said, fighting back laughter as well as everything else, now, “you should know, I don’t want to get to know Anna better.”

“You don’t?”

“I mean. Like, maybe I do, just to get to know her. She seems pretty awesome. Hidden depths. Did you know she can pass the nex lie detector? But not, you know, uh. Yeah, not like that. I actually haven’t - not for a long time, I haven’t really - you know -”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” 

“Why not?”

“I dunno.” Dean would have shrugged awkwardly, if they hadn’t been running, feet pounding on the steps. “I didn’t want to, I guess.”

“So… what do you want?”

“It’s - I want - uh.” How to explain? How to take the feeling that Dean had - the feeling of seeing Castiel holding his hand, knowing he’d been there all night? The groundedness of it, the reality? Dean didn’t have words. And before he could figure it out - before he could even begin to twist the smallest part of what he was feeling into words - Castiel sped up, began taking the steps two at a time.

“We need to hurry,” he said. “She’s going to know by now that we’ve escaped.”

“How?”

“However she normally knows everything. We aren’t told. Maybe a nex tracker, or…”

“You aren’t told? And that never rang an alarm bell for you before?” Dean said, incredulous. “Wow, Cas.”

“Actually,” Castiel said, “I’ve recently found out that it did ring an alarm bell for me several times before, but each time it happened, they brought me into Heaven and wiped the relevant sections of my memory, so that I couldn’t remember what it was that I didn’t like.”

Dean would have left a long pause after that, just to process, but he needed to keep talking, so he said,

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“I’m - I’m sorry.” He breathed for a second, and then said, “I’m sorry, Cas.”

“There are worse fates - than having to live a - life of luxury - in the Up,” Castiel said. “Even with only some of my - memories. I think if we keep going much longer I’m going to be sick.”

They were passing doors on either side as they ran, the steps twisting ever upward. Dean read the display beside the next door they passed; it said  _ Floor 830. _

“We can’t be far off,” he said. “When we got off the - the elevator, it looked like Floor 800 wasn’t - wasn’t that far from the top.”

“Heaven has 850 floors,” Castiel said. When Dean glanced over at him, he did look pale, and he was sweating. Dean couldn’t imagine that he himself looked much better. He could feel his face starting to tighten over the bruises, his split lip thick and metallic with dried blood.

“Thanks for the beating, by the way,” Dean said. They ran on.

“Wasn’t me,” Castiel grunted.

“Looked like you.”

“Nex.”

“Yeah, I get that. Anyway.” Dean swallowed. “You saved my ass enough times in the Underlight. Think you owed me a few good punches.”

Castiel caught his eye, briefly, in the hustle of their run.

“You saved me too,” he said. “Enough times.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Ugh.”

“I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“You’re terrible.”

Dean laughed, and then stopped himself before it could get out of control. A pair of Angels came out of the door marked 838. Dean didn’t hesitate. He drove the rune-knife straight into the neck, and punched the face for good measure. The Angel went down. The other managed to catch Castiel a sharp blow on the cheek, but then Castiel stepped in close, delivered a hard kick to the stomach, and used his elbow to crack the Angel over the head. They dropped, hard.

With a moment of eye contact, Dean and Castiel ran on. It felt seamless. Every second hearing Castiel’s breathing, running beside him, fighting beside him, brought Dean a little closer to his own body, his own mind. The sound of the nex was getting weaker. They ran several floors in silence, and Dean could easily blot out the voice telling him to run.

Floor 842.

Floor 843.

Floor 844.

“We could die any second,” Dean said.

“Almost always true,” Castiel replied.

“Kinda more true than usual right now.”

“I suppose so,” Castiel said.

“Any last words?”

Castiel came to a stop.

“Actually,” he said. “There is one thing. If these are going to be our last - if this is our last -” He paused to breathe, and wiped his forehead. He was standing one step down from Dean, who turned to face him, looking down at him. Castiel stared up at him for a second, and then he was surging upwards, and his lips were crashing onto Dean’s.

It was messy and unbalanced. Dean half-fell sideways and then caught himself on the wall, pulling Castiel with him. Castiel crowded him, coming in close, pushing Dean flat against the wall. He kissed hard, angry, hands grabbing Dean’s shoulders and holding him steady. Dean gave it back, one leg hanging off the step in thin air, pulling on the neck of Castiel’s suit for balance and to bring him closer, closer.

This was what he wanted. This, this, this. Even right before he was about to die, even when everything was wrong and they stood no chance of righting it, even in the stairway of the building he’d hated his whole life, even though Castiel was an Angel and he was Dean Winchester. Even still, even still. He wanted this. He wanted this. The way Castiel kissed him, the seriousness of it, the significance, it was dark and bitter and hopeful. It was a red rose thrown in the dark. It was a hand on his, all the way through the night. It said,  _ You. You. Only you. Only you. _

When they pulled apart, Castiel placed a single, momentary kiss on Dean’s cheek. Dean had to close his eyes for a second.

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” Castiel said. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you who I was.”

Dean put his hand on Castiel’s cheek. Rough, but steady.

“You did,” he said. “You did tell me.”

_ This is who I thought you were,  _ Dean wanted to say.  _ I was only angry when I thought this wasn’t you. _

From below them came the sounds of doors slamming, and footsteps.

“Do you want to go take down an evil mega-organisation,” Castiel said, “or die trying?” 

“Hmm. Now?”

“I thought maybe now.”

“Oof. My schedule’s pretty booked up.”

They smiled into one more kiss, and then they were off. They were running.

_ Castiel _

Castiel read the words  _ Floor 850,  _ his body shaking. The steps continued further up, but this was their stop. The run had been a hard one - he usually Winged most places, didn’t walk, which was probably why he could feel sickness churning in his stomach and Dean looked relatively good - considering the fact that he had blood and bruising marking his face.

They paused together outside the door. Castiel met Dean’s eyes.

“There might be a whole squad of Angels ready to take us down on the other side of this door,” he said. “This could be it.”

“Stop angling for more of this,” Dean said, tapping his lips, “and open the damn door.”

Castiel felt his heart thudding, pounding in his chest. His heart wanted to live. His heart wanted hand-holding and talking and - and yes, more kissing, a lot more of it, if what they’d just done was what kissing could be like. His heart wanted Dean. His heart was furious that this could be it, this could be all they’d ever have. These moments. And no one would ever even know. The Angels would cover up their disappearances. The Angels would say,  _ nature took its course. _

Gritting his teeth, Castiel breathed out.

“Three,” he said, “two, one -”

He smacked the panel to open the door. It hummed open. And beyond -

Castiel’s mouth fell open.

The space was empty of people. It was a huge, quiet room, high-ceilinged, dark - the furniture was modern and officey, with fluting on the desk-legs and soft wavy patterns on the chair cushions. On every one of the curved four walls, there was a floor-to-ceiling window that stretched for metres on end; the Spire had a view out to every corner of the city.

Dean stepped out into the room. Castiel followed him warily.

Papers were sitting on the desk. There was a whole corner of the room that looked more like a lounge, with a square of comfortable-looking sofas. The place was lit up in blues and yellows from the lights of the buildings outside, and the little wall-lamps that flickered on the walls.

“Nice place,” he said. Castiel could hear the tension in his voice, could see the glint off the Colt in his hand.

“I’m glad you think so,” said another voice, and the pair of them swung around. Naomi stood off to one side of the room, veiled in shadow, her hands in her pockets.

“Naomi,” Castiel said.

“I’m curious, 401,” she said. “What was your plan, once you got here?”

“Stop you,” Dean said, succinctly.

Naomi stepped forward.

“How, Mr Winchester? Tell me. I’m truly curious. Also, I’m recording all of this with my nex so that we can study it later, so be as forthright as you can.”

“You’re… recording this?”

“Yes, of course. I’m afraid once you’ve stopped giving me new information to work with, we are going to have to let nature take its course with you two -”

“You said you didn’t kill,” Dean growled.

“Oh, I don’t. But you will.” Naomi didn’t smile. “It’s a very tall building, Mr Winchester. Isn’t it? And if you and Angel 401 were to get into a fight… if you were to stumble towards the windows… that would be terrible. But it could happen.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Dean said.

“Oh, Mr Winchester. I’m the head of the Angels. I answer to no one but my own conscience. I can get away with anything. Don’t you see?”

“You answer to the city,” Castiel said, his words thick with anger. “Or you should.”

“I  _ am  _ the city, 401.”

“You’re not. The city’s her own. You’re just a person. You’re just a person, like us.”

Naomi shook her head.

“I’m getting bored,” she said. “Time to end this, I think. You know, it really does help  _ so  _ much to have the master nex. I can just -” She closed her eyes.

Through Castiel’s brain poured a wave of anger. Deep, feral, primal. More than anger, it was hunger. Hunger for tearing, breaking, ripping. Castiel had felt this before, when Dean had woken him in the holding cell. This rage, this  _ need  _ to destroy.

“And then direct it…” Naomi murmured.

Castiel looked to his right, just as Dean looked to his left. And Castiel  _ hated  _ him. Castiel felt his body surge with a need to see Dean torn apart and shredded. Castiel wanted Dean to be a stain on the carpet. He wanted Dean to be less than nothing. He wanted Dean worse than destroyed, he wanted him maimed, annihilated, utterly erased.

And he looked at Dean, and he did nothing.

_ Kill him,  _ sang Castiel’s thoughts.  _ Kill him, kill him. _

Castiel looked at Dean, and he could be steady. He could be unmoving.

He thought about how they’d kissed, in the stairway.

He thought about Dean saying, 

_ You did. You did tell me. _

He didn’t move. He held himself in check. And beside him, Dean’s face worked as he, too, kept himself steady.

“Interesting,” said Naomi softly. “Truly, this is interesting. You’re resisting, using each other.” Out of the corner of Castiel’s eye, he could see her tapping her chin. He only watched Dean. If they stopped looking at each other, holding each other together, he could feel his fists itching to lash out.

“Let’s try something else, then,” Naomi said. “I need a way to stop this kind of thing. If you two can do it, anyone could. So let’s see…”

She closed her eyes.

The anger faded. Castiel watched Dean’s expression change. His eyes widened, his mouth fell open. He stepped back from Castiel, half-stumbling.

“Dean?” Castiel said.

“You - you killed Sam?” Dean said.

“No,” Castiel said. “No, I didn’t - I didn’t kill anyone, who’s 

_ Here to help,  _ said Castiel’s nex.

And then Castiel remembered. He’d killed Sam. He’d used a knife and he’d killed Sam. The memory appeared in his mind, bright and shining, in full colour. Sam, Dean’s brother. Long hair, wide smile.

“No -  _ no - _ ” Dean had his Colt levelled at Castiel’s head. The gun that he never fired, not in the Underlight. But this was the Up. This was Heaven. And Castiel had killed Sam.

Dean cocked the gun.

Castiel didn’t move. He’d killed Sam. He’d killed Dean’s brother. With a knife. He deserved this. 

To one side, he could see Naomi watching. His chest seized, suddenly.

“Dean - Dean, it’s the nex - it’s the nex,” he shouted. Dean pulled the trigger, at the same time as his hand jerked up. The bullet went wild, flying off to one side and shattering one of the windows. The glass splintered, fragmented, but didn’t fall - just held itself in place, spiderwebbed across its length with cracks.

The memory in Castiel’s mind disappeared. 

He hadn’t killed Sam. He’d never even met Sam. Dean’s face was horrified. He dropped the Colt.

“I almost -”

“You didn’t,” Castiel said. “You didn’t.”

“Not that either,” Naomi said. “Interesting. What if…”

She wasn’t going to stop, Castiel realised. She wasn’t going to end it. They weren’t going to be able to win. If they made a rush at her, she’d plant a memory that she’d saved them from drowning. Or flood them with dopamine and serotonin, and make them love her, love her more than anything, love her so much that they’d murder each other just to be the one that loved her the most. There was no way to escape her so long as the nex was in place. Castiel had thought it could wait, that they could deal Naomi first - deal with the person first and the thoughts in their heads after - but he’d been wrong.

The nexes had to come off. He’d done it before. He could do it again.

_ I want you out of my head,  _ he thought, as clearly as he could.

Naomi shook her head. The air in the room was ever so slightly cooler than it had been, cold seeping through the cracks in the window.

“No,” she said. She closed her eyes.

Bright, beautiful happiness bathed Castiel. It was a wave, an instantaneous wash. He was so happy.

He had always been so, so happy.

He fell to his knees.

_ I want - _

The happiness pressed harder, like a soft beautiful pillow pushed over his face, smothering him. Like a song in his ears, siren-like, undeniable, unavoidable. He couldn’t plug his ears against his own brain, his own thoughts. No wax could keep out the call of his own mind.

_ I want - _

He couldn’t finish the thought. He was so happy he wanted to die. He was so happy he thought that he really could, right now. He fell, and lay on his back. Was his heart going to give out? Was it going to let him go?

His heart presented him stubbornly with a picture of a man with a broken face, and said,  _ no. _

_ I want you out of my head,  _ Castiel said. 

_ Happy,  _ sang the nex,  _ happy, happy, happy - _

_ I want,  _ Castiel thought,  _ genesis mode. _

There was a pause, and then -

_ Accessing genesis mode. _

The happiness fell away. It was as harsh as being dropped into freezing water. One moment, Castiel was lying on his back with a dreamy expression on his face, on the point of transcendence. The next, he was slammed back into his own thoughts, his own brain - which was soused in chemicals, reaching helplessly for something to hold onto.

** _Here to help, _ ** said Castiel’s nex, in that deep voice he’d heard before. Genesis mode. Genesis. The beginning. The start. 

_ Get out of my brain,  _ Castiel thought.

The metal plate dropped away from the side of his head.

“Genesis mode,” Naomi said, and for the first time, she sounded less than composed.

“Genesis mode,” Castiel repeated, and got to his feet. Across the room, Dean was lying on the floor, a smile on his face. He was gone, out of it. “Is this what the nexes were supposed to be?” Castiel demanded of Naomi, advancing on her. “Is this what we were supposed to hear? A voice that doesn’t sound like our own?”

“People respond so much better to the - to the sound of their own voice,” Naomi said, but she was backing away just a step.

“The good parts of the nex,” Castiel said. “The mood control for those who need it, the hormone changes, the access to information, all of it - we had it all, without the part where it controlled us, and then you - you took it away?”

“I… it was - I did it for the city,” Naomi said. “To bring peace, and calm, and respect -”

“You did it for yourself,” Castiel snapped, and Naomi winced, closing her eyes. 

A blow landed on the back of Castiel’s head. Castiel turned, stumbling. Dean, without Castiel’s gaze to keep him in check, was deep in the hold of his nex, face contorted in anger.

“Stop!” Castiel shouted.

Naomi was backing away from the pair of them, towards the shattered window, her face tight with fear. She was muttering, now, and Castiel caught part of it as he ducked to dodge another of Dean’s swings at him.

“- data has been gathered, send in Angels, bring Stills -”

“No!” Castiel made to run across the room towards her, but Dean pulled him back by his shoulder and grabbed him by the throat. Castiel brought his arm down, hard, on the hand that held him; he heard something crack, and Dean spun away, doubled-over, yelling.

Castiel made a break for Naomi on the far side of the room. If he could get her nex off, somehow - if he could just break her control over Dean, over all the Angels, then he could stop this, he could fix it -

Just as he reached her, he heard a faint,

_ Click. _

He turned, to see Dean holding the Colt at his head, again.

“Dean,” Castiel said, and he could see that Dean’s hand was shaking. “Dean - there isn’t time - you have to let me get the nex off Naomi.”

“Shoot him,” Naomi whispered furiously. “Shoot him.”

“Please,” Castiel said. “You know me. You know you don’t hate me. You know who we are to each other.”

“It’s all fake,” Naomi hissed. “He’s lying.”

“You know what’s real,” Castiel said steadily. He could hear footsteps approaching. Their time was almost up. This was it. “Dean. You and me. In my room. In the stairway. In the Underlight.”

He didn’t look away from Dean. The lights in the room swirled. The glass behind Castiel scratched and murmured as it broke, slowly, into ever-smaller pieces. Naomi was still, as though afraid that her smallest movement might break Dean’s determination to kill. Castiel watched Dean’s jaw tighten. He watched his trigger finger twitch, and then pull.

A single shot resounded.

In a half of a half of a second, the nex on the side of Naomi’s head was struck by the bullet. It crumpled, loosed its hold on her mind. Metal and metal flew backward, struck the window - it sprayed glass outward, cascaded - and fell. All of it fell.

The air rushed in. This high up, it was thin and cold, but clean. Castiel took a breath of it in the absolute silence.

Naomi turned to look at Castiel. Along the side of her head was a line of red, drawn by the bullet. Dean’s shot had been accurate to the millimetre.

“Did -” Castiel said, and his voice came out a croak. “Did you mean to do that?”

Dean lowered the Colt.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Did you use the nex? Or was it luck?”

Now, Dean offered him a wan smile.

“Pure, unadulterated skill, Cas,” he said.

“Well,” Castiel said, “thank you.”

Dean lifted his arms in an almost-shrug.

“Here to help,” he said.


	11. Chapter 11

_ Dean _

On the rooftop of Castiel’s building, Dean stood still and looked out over the city at night.

His face had healed. It had taken a while - he’d refused any medical attention. He’d had enough of things he didn’t understand poking and prodding into him for now, at least.

He’d tried to speak to Sam. The phone hadn’t worked. He’d try again soon. There was a lot to tell him.

Beside him, Castiel was looking out, too. It was the first time they’d seen each other since the night in the Spire. Dean had been healing, and hiding out in the Mid, trying to be anonymous. Castiel, meanwhile, had been busy in the Spire. And in the Underlight.

“How’s Naomi,” Dean asked, his tone bracing.

“Enjoying her holding cell. Missing her nex.”

“I can’t feel sorry for her,” Dean said.

“No. And she certainly won’t be getting her nex back.”

“No more nexes, then?” Dean asked.

“No more nexes. They started off trying to do something good. But it was too easily turned to something wrong.”

“Hmm.” Dean nodded.

“Angels, too,” Castiel said.

“What?”

“No more Angels. Same problem,” Castiel said. 

“What? So…”

“We’re starting again. This time, no more focus on respect. Respect is going to be something we earn, not demand.”

“Sounds good,” said Dean. “Sounds better.”

“I hope so,” Castiel said. “I hope so.”

A few moments of silence passed between them. Behind them, the trees rustled. Dean’s feet were bare, and the grass felt soft beneath them. He still wasn’t used to it. He’d come here a few times, but even so. The wetness of it under his feet, the life. He didn’t think he ever would be used to it.

“Are they coming?” Dean asked.

“Soon.”

“We have some time?”

“A little,” Castiel said.

Dean nodded.

“I, uh. I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” he said. It was the best way he could tell Castiel that being without him for two weeks after what they’d been through together had felt like missing a part of himself. They’d relied on each other in Heaven, they’d kept each other alive - they’d kept each other real, just by looking. Just by knowing.

“I also wanted to come and find you,” Castiel said. “Anna mentioned you’d dropped by a few times.”

“Hoped I might run into you.”

“I was at the Spire…”

“Doing the important stuff. Yeah, I know. Seriously, it’s good.”

Dean cleared his throat.

He wished they could just be on that stairway again. That they could be that close, that certain of each other, that unafraid because they were _ so _afraid. But now, here they were in the aftermath. No more life-and-death, no more gallows humour, no more manhunt. No more mind-control. Just the two of them, among the trees, staring out over the city they’d been willing to die for.

“Listen,” Dean said, just as Castiel said at the same time,

“I’ve liked you for so long, you know.”

Dean paused. He felt a smile starting at the corners of his mouth. He’d been so horribly sure that neither of them was going to have the courage to say anything about it. That they were going to go their separate ways, each not sure it was what the other wanted, but not ready to risk asking. But Castiel had said something. They were going to talk about it. A breeze picked up, and ran through Dean’s hair. Through his clothes. Soft clothes, not armour.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Yes. At every party, I’d look for you.”

“Huh. That’s why I couldn’t ever get through one without seeing you.” Dean glanced over at Castiel, and grinned. “For the record, I thought I hated you. And then - you know, in your room - and I was like, uh. Maybe I really _ don’t _hate you.”

Castiel was smiling too, now, that ever-so-slight smile of his.

“That was when you knew?”

“I knew when you stayed with me,” Dean said. “Through that night. When you didn’t leave me.”

“Then?” Castiel sounded surprised. “I just didn’t want you to be on your own.”

“Exactly,” Dean said.

He turned to face Castiel.

“Do you wanna do this?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“I don’t know. Whatever people do when they like each other and they’ve already saved the whole city together. Go get pizza, maybe.”

“Hmmm.” Castiel narrowed his eyes slightly. “My schedule is pretty full, so…”

Dean grinned. When he held out his hand, Castiel took it.

“I think we can make it work,” Castiel said. Dean squeezed.

They heard footsteps behind them, and turned to look over their shoulders. Behind them - for the first time in their lives, brought up here on Castiel’s instruction - were people, some faces Dean knew, some he didn’t. A pair of siblings - a thief and a diabetic. Those he recognised easiest. Dirty faces, thin faces. Wan and hungry, but just a little bright-eyed, perhaps. And those eyes were going wide, wide, wide, at the sight of the trees. The people of the Underlight had arrived.

On the horizon, the sun came up, and touched their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, so very very many thank yous to [Aceriee](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/). A reminder that the art masterposts can be found [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21345025) on AO3 and [here](https://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/dcbb19wwikap) on tumblr. Please go and show love, if you have the time and spoons!!
> 
> And finally, thank you to YOU for reading! I hope you're doing well, reader. Whether you are or you aren't, know this: I think you're very cool. And I would love to give you some homemade apple crumble.


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